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4 8 6 5 5 5 


JUL I 7 1942 


44 My dear Lady Taylor,; — To your name, if I wrote 
on brass, I could add nothing; it has been already written 
higher than I could dream to reach, by a strong and a 
dear hand; and if I-now dedicate to you these tales, it is 
not as the writer who brings you his work, but as the 
friend who would remind you of his affection. 

‘‘Robert Louis Stevenson. 


“ Skerryvore, Bournemouth . 1 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE MERRY MEN 7 

WILL O’ THE MILL 62 

MARKHEIM 92 

THRAWN JANET 112 

OLALLA . . . • 124 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD ... 172 




THE MERRY MEN, 


CHAPTER L 

El LEA 1ST AEOS. 

It was a beautiful morning in the late July when I set 
forth on foot for the last time for Aros. A boat had put 
me ashore the night before at Grisapol; I had such break- 
fast as the little inn afforded, and, leaving all my baggage 
ti 11 *1 had an occasion to come round for it by sea, struck 
right across the promontory with a cheerful heart. 

I was far from being a native of these parts, springing, 
as I did, from an unmixed lowland stock. But an uncle of 
mine, Gordon Darnaway, after a poor, rough youth, and 
some years at sea, had married a young wife in the islands; 
Mary Maclean she was called, the last of her family; and 
when she died in giving birth to a daughter, Aros, the sea- 
girt farm, had remained in his possession. It brought him 
in nothing but the means of life, as I was well aware; but 
he was a man whom ill-fortune had pursued; he feared, 
cumbered as he was with the young child, to make a fresh 
adventure upon life; and remained in Aros, biting his nails 
at destiny. Years passed over his head in that isolation, 
and brought neither help nor contentment. Meantime our 
family was dying out in the lowlands; there is little luck 
for any of that race; and perhaps my father was the luck- 
iest of all, for not only was he one of the last to die, but he 
left a son to his name and a little money to support it. I 
was a student of Edinburgh University, living well enough 
at my own charges, but without kith or kin; when some 


8 


THE MERRY MEH. 


news of me found its way to Uncle Gordon on the Ross of 
Grisapol; and he, as he was a man who held blood thicker 
than water, wrote to me the day he heard of my existence, 
and taught me to count Aros as my home. Thus it was 
that I came to spend my vacations in that part of the coun- 
try, so far from all society and comfort, between the cod- 
fish and the moor-cocks; and thus it was that now, when I 
had done with my classes, I was returning thither with so 
light a heart that July day. 

The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neither wide nor 
high, but as rough as God made it to this day; the deep sea 
on either hand of it, full of rugged isles and reefs most 
perilous to seamen — all overlooked from the eastward by 
• some very high cliffs and the great peak of Ben Kyaw. 
“ The Mountain of the Mist,” they say the words signify im 
the Gaelic tongue; and it is well named. For that hill- 
top, which is more than three thousand feet in height,, 
catches all the clouds that come blowing from the seaward;; 
and, indeed, I used often to think that it must make them 
for itself; since when all heaven was clear to the sea level,, 
there would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw. It brought 
water, too, and was mossy* to the top in consequence. I 
have seen us sitting in broad sunshine on the Ross, and the'- 
rain falling black like crape upon the mountain. But the^ 
wetness of it made it often appear more beautiful to my 
eyes; for when the sun struck upon the hill-sides, there' 
were many wet rocks and water-courses that shone like- 
jewels even as far as Aros, fifteen miles away. 

The road that I followed was a cattle-track. It twisted! 
so as nearly to double the length of my journey; it went 
over rough bowlders so that a man had to leap from one to 
another, and through soft bottoms where the moss came 
nearly to the knee. There was no cultivation anywhere,, 
and not one house in the ten miles from Grisapol to Aros., 


Boggy. 


THE MERRY MEN. 


Houses of course there were — three at least; but they lay 
so far on the one side or the other that no stranger could 
have found them from the track. A large part of the Boss 
is covered with big granite rocks, some of them larger than 
a two-roomed house, one beside another, with fern and 
deep heather in between them where the vipers breed. 
Any way the wind was, it was always sea air, as salt as on a 
ship; the gulls were as free as moor-fowl over all the Ross; 
and whenever the way rose a little, your eye would kindle 
with the brightness of the sea. From the very midst of 
the land, on a day of wind and a high spring, I have heard 
the Roost roaring like a battle where it runs by Aros, and 
the great and fearful voices of the breakers that we call the 
“ Merry Men.” 

Aros itself — Aros Jay, I have heard the natives call it, and 
they say it means “ The House of God” — Aros itself was 
not properly a piece of the Ross, nor was it quite an islet. 
It formed the south-west corner of the land, fitted close by 
it, and was in one place only separated from the coast by a 
little gut of the sea, not forty feet across the narrowest. 
When the tide was full, this was clear and still, like a pool 
on a land river; only there was a difference in the weeds 
and fishes, and the water itself was green instead of brown; 
but when the tide went out, in the bottom of the ebb, there 
was a day or two in every month when you could pass dry- 
shod from Aros to the mainland. There was some good 
pasture, where my uncle fed the sheep he lived on; perhaps 
the feed was better because the ground rose higher on the 
islet than the main level of the Ross, but this I am not 
skilled enough to settle. The house was a good one for 
that country, two stories high. It looked westward over a 
bay, with a pier hard by for a boat, and from the door you 
could watch the vapors blowing on Ben Kyaw. 

On all this part of the coast, and especially near Aros, 
these great granite rocks that I have spoken of go down 
together in troops into the sea, like cattle on a summer's 


10 


THE MERRY MEH. 


day. There they stand, for all the world like their neigh- 
bors ashore; only the salt water sobbing between them in- 
stead of the quiet earth, and clots of sea-pink blooming on 
their sides instead of heather; and the great sea conger to 
wreathe about the base of them instead of the poisonous, 
viper of the land. On calm days you can go wandering be- 
tween them in a boat for hours, echoes following you about 
the labyrinth; but when the sea is up. Heaven help the 
man that hears that caldron boiling. 

Off the south-west end of Aros these rocks are very many, 
and much greater in size. Indeed, they must grow mon- 
strously bigger out to sea, for there must be ten sea miles 
of open water sown with them as thick as a country place 
with houses, some standing thirty feet above the tides, 
some covered, but all perilous to ships; so that on a clear, 
westerly blowing day, I have counted, from the top of 
Aros, the great rollers breaking white and heavy over as 
many as six-and-forty buried reefs. But it is nearer in- 
shore tliat the danger is worst; for the tide, here running 
like a mill-race, makes a long belt of broken water — a 
Boost we call it — at the tail of the land. I have often been 
out there in a dead calm at the slack of the tide; and a 
strange place it is, with the sea swirling and combing up 
and boiling like the caldrons of a linn, and now and again 
a little dancing mutter of sound as though the Boost were 
talking to itself. But when the tide begins to run again, 
and above all in heavy weather, there is no man could take 
a boat within half a mile of it, nor a ship afloat that could 
either steer or live in such a place. You can hear the roar- 
ing of it six miles away. At the seaward end there comes 
the strongest of the bubble; and it’s here that these big 
breakers dance together — the dance of death, it may be 
called — that have got the name, in these parts, of the 
Merry Men. I have heard it said that they run fifty feet 
high; but that must be the green water only, for the spray 
runs twice as high as that. Whether they got the name 


THE MERRY MEH. 


11 


from their movements, which are swift and antic, or from 
the shouting they make about the turn of the tide, so that 
all Aros shakes with it, is more than I can tell. 

The truth is, that in a south-westerly wind, that part of 
our archipelago is no better than a trap. If a ship got 
through the reefs, and weathered the Merry Men, it would 
be to come ashore on the south coast of Aros, in Sandag 
Bay, where so many dismal things befell our family, as I 
propose to tell. The thought of all these dangers, in the 
place I knew so long, makes me particularly welcome the 
works now going forward to set lights upon the headlands 
and buoys along the channels of our iron-bound, inhos- 
pitable islands. 

The country people had many a story about Aros, as I 
used to hear from my uncle's man, Rorie, an old servant 
of the Macleans, who had transferred his services without 
after- thought on the occasion of the marriage. There was 
some tale of an unlucky creature, a sea-kelpie, that dwelt 
and did business in some fearful manner of his own among 
the boiling breakers of the Roost. A mermaid had once 
met a piper on Sandag beach, and there sung to him a 
long, bright midsummer's night, so that in the morning 
he was found stricken crazy, and from thenceforward, till 
the day he died, said only one form of words; what they 
were in the original Gaelic I can not tell, but they were 
thus translated: 44 Ah, the sweet singing out of the sea." 
Seals that haunted on that coast have been known to speak 
to man in his own tongue, presaging great disasters. It 
was here that a certain saint first landed on his voyage out 
of Ireland to convert the Hebrideans. And, indeed, I 
think he had some claim to be called saint; for, with the 
boats of that past age, to make so rough a passage, and 
land on such a ticklish coast, was surely not far short of 
the miraculous. It was to him, or to some of his monkish 
underlings who had a cell there, that the islet owes its holy 
and beautiful name, the House of God. 


12 


THE MERRY MEN - . 


Among these old wives* stories there was one which I 
was inclined to hear with more credulity. As I was told, 
in that tempest which scattered the ships of the Invincible 
Armada over all the north and west of Scotland* one great 
vessel came ashore on Aros, and before the eyes of some 
solitary people on a hill- top, went down in a moment with 
all hands, her colors flying even as she sunk. There was 
some likelihood in this tale; for another of that fleet lay 
sunk on the north side, twenty miles from Grisapol. It 
was told, I thought, with more detail and gravity than its 
companion stories, and there was one particularity which 
went far to convince me of its truth: the name, that is, of 
the ship was still remembered, and sounded, in my ears 
Spanishly. The “ Espirito Santo ** they called it, a great 
ship of many decks of guns, laden with treasure and 
grandees of Spain, and fierce soldadoes, that now lay 
fathom deep to all eternity, done with her wars and voy- 
ages, in Sandag Bay, upon the west of Aros. No more 
salvos of ordnance for that tall ship, the * 4 Holy Spirit,** 
no more fair winds or happy ventures; only to rot there 
deep in the sea-tangle and hear the shoutings of the Merry 
Men as the tide ran high about the island. It was a 
strange thought to me first and last, and only grew stran- 
ger as I learned the more of the way in which she had set 
sail with so proud a company, and King Philip, the wealthy 
king, that sent her on that voyage. 

And now I must tell you, as I walked from Grisapol that 
day, the “ Espirito Santo ** was very much in my reflec- 
tions. I had been favorably remarked by our then Princi- 
pal in Edinburgh College, that famous writer, Er. Robert- 
son, and by him had been set to work on some papers of 
an ancient date to rearrange and sift out what was worth- 
less; and in one of these, to my great wonder, I found a 
note of this very ship, the “ Espirito Santo,** with her 
captain*s name, and how she carried a great part of the 
Spaniard *s treasure, and had been lost upon the Ross of 


THE MERRY MEM. 


13 


Grisapol; but in what particular spot, the wild tribes of 
tbat place and period would give no information to the 
king's inquiries. Putting one thing with another, and 
taking our island tradition together with this note of old 
King Jamie's perquisitions after wealth, it had come 
strongly on my mind that the spot for which he sought 
in vain could be no other than the small Bay of Sandag on 
my uncle's land; and being a fellow of a mechanical turn, 
I had ever since been plotting how to weigh that good ship 
up - again with all her ingots, ounces, and doubloons, and 
bring back our house of Darnaway to its long-forgotten 
dignity and wealth. 

This was a design of which I soon had reason to repent. 
My mind was sharply turned on different reflections; and 
since I became the witness of a strange judgment of God’s, 
the thought of dead men's treasures has been intolerable to 
my conscience. But even at that time I must acquit my- 
self of sordid greed; for if I desired riches, it was not for 
their own sake, but for the sake of a person who was dear 
to my heart — my uncle's daughter, Mary Ellen. She had 
been educated well, and had been a time to school upon the 
mainland; which, poor girl, she would have been happier 
without. For Aros was no place for her, with old Borie 
the servant, and her father, who was one of the unhappiest 
men in Scotland, plainly bred up in a country place among 
Cameronians, long a skipper sailing out of the Clyde about 
the islands, and now, with infinite discontent, managing 
his sheep and a little 'longshore fishing for the necessary 
bread. If it was sometimes weariful to me, who was there 
but a month or two, you may fancy what it was to her who 
dwelt in that same desert all the year round, with the sheep 
and flying sea-gulls, and the Merry Men singing and danc- 
ing in the Boost! 


14 


THE MERRY MEN. 


CHAPTER II. 

WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS. 

It was half -flood when I got the length of Aros; and 
there was nothing for it but to stand on the far shore and 
whistle for Rorie with the boat. I had no need to repeat 
the signal. At the first sound, Mary was at the door flying 
a handkerchief by way of answer, and the old long-legged 
serving-man was shambling down the gravel to the pier. 
For all his hurry, it took him a long while to pull across 
the bay; and I observed him several times to pause, go into 
the stern, and look over curiously into the wake. As he 
came nearer, he seemed to me aged and haggard, and I 
thought he avoided my eye. The coble had been repaired, 
with two new thwarts and several patches of some rare and 
beautiful foreign wood, the name of it unknown to me. 

“Why, Rorie,” said I, as we began the return voyage, 
“ this is fine wood. How came you by that?” 

“ It will be hard to cheesel,” Rorie opined, reluctantly; 
and just then, dropping the oars, he made another of those 
dives into the stern which I had remarked as he came 
across to fetch me, and, leaning his hand on my shoulder, 
stared with an awful look into the waters of the bay. 

“ What is wrong?" I asked, a good deal startled. 

“ It will be a great feesh,” said the old man, returning 
to his oars; and nothing more could I get out of him, but 
strange glances and an ominous nodding of the head. In 
spite of myself, I was infected with a measure of uneasi- 
ness; I turned also, and studied the wake. The water was 
still and transparent, but, out here in the middle of the 
bay, exceeding deep. For some time I could see naught; 
but at last it did seem to me as if something dark — a great 
fish, or perhaps only a shadow — followed studiously in the 


THE MERRY MEH. 


15 


track of the moving coble. And then I remembered One 
of Rorie’s superstitions: how in a ferry in Morven, in some 
great, exterminating feud among the clans, a fish, the like 
of it unknown in all our waters, followed for some years 
the passage of the ferry-boat, until no man dared to make 
the crossing. 

44 He will be waiting for the right man,” said Rorie. 

Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the brae and 
into the house of Aros. Outside and inside there were 
many changes. The garden was fenced with the same 
wood that I had noted in the boat; there were chairs in the 
kitchen covered with strange brocade; curtains of brocade 
hung from the window; a clock stood silent on the dresser; 
a lamp of brass was swinging from the roof; the table was 
set for dinner with the finest of linen and silver; and all 
these new riches were displayed in the plain old kitchen 
that I knew so well, with the high-backed settle, and the 
stools, and the closet bed for Rorie; with the wide chimney 
the sun shone into, and the clear-smoldering peats; with 
the pipes on the mantel-shelf and the three-cornered spit- 
toons, filled with sea-shells instead of sand, on the floor; 
with the bare stbne walls and the bare wooden floor, and 
the three patchwork rugs that were of yore its sole adorn- 
ment — poor man’s patchwork, the like of it unknown in 
cities, woven with homespun, and Sunday black, and sea- 
cloth polished on the bench of rowing. The room, like the 
house, had been a sort of wonder, in the country-side, it 
was so neat and habitable; and to see it now, shamed by 
these incongruous additions, filled me with indignation and 
a kind of anger. In view of the errand I had come upon 
to Aros, the feeling was baseless and unjust; but it burned 
high, at the first moment, in my heart. 

44 Mary, girl, 39 said I, 44 this is the place I had learned to 
call my home, and I do not know it.” 

4 4 It is my home by nature, not by the learning,” she re- 
plied; 44 the place I was born and the place I’m like to die 


16 


THE MERRY MEH. 


in; and I neither like these changes, nor the way they 
came, nor that which came with them. I would have liked 
better, under God's pleasure, they had gone down into the 
sea, and the Merry Men were dancing on them now." 

Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the only trait 
that she shared with her father; but the tone with which 
she uttered these words was even graver than of custom. 

“ Ay," said I, 44 I feared it came by wreck, and that's 
by death; yet when my father died, I took his goods with- 
out remorse." 

44 Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk say," 
said Mary. 

44 True," I returned; 44 and a wreck is like a judgment. 
What was she called?" 

44 They ca’d her the 4 Christ- Anna/ " said a voice be- 
hind me; and, turning round, I saw my uncle standing in 
the door-way. 

He was a sour, small, bilious man, with a long face and 
very dark eyes; fifty-six years old, sound and active in 
body, and with an air somewhat between that of a shepherd 
and that of a man following the sea. He never laughed, 
that I heard; read long at the Bible; prayed much, like 
the Cameronians he had been brought up among; and in- 
deed, in many ways, used to remind me of one of the hill- 
preachers in the killing times before the Revolution. But 
he never got much comfort, nor even, as I used to think, 
much guidauce, by his piety. He had his black fits when 
he was afraid of hell; but he had led a rough life, to which 
he would look back with envy, and was still a rough, cold, 
gloomy man. 

As he came in at the door out of the sunlight, with his 
bonnet on his head and a pipe hanging in his button-hole, 
he seemed, like Rorie, to have grown older and paler, the 
lines were deeplier plowed upon his face, and the whites of 
his eyes were yellow, like old stained ivory, or the bones of 
the dead. 


THE MERRY MEH. 


17 


“ Ay,” he repeated, dwelling upon the first part of the 
word, “ the ‘ Christ- Anna. 5 It’s an awfu' name.” 

I made him my salutations, and complimented him upon 
his look of health; for I feared he had perhaps been ill. 

“ Fm in the body,” he replied, ungraciously enough; 
“ ay in the body and the sins of the body, like yoursel'. 
Denner,” he said abruptly to Mary, and then ran on to 
me: “ They're grand braws, thir that we hae gotten, are 
they no? Yon's a bonny knock,* but it'll no gang; and 
the napery's by ordnar. Bonny, bairnly braws; it's for 
the like o' them folk sells the peace of God that passeth 
understanding; it's for the like o' them, an' may be no 
even sae muckle worth, folk daunt-on God to His face and 
burn in muckle hell; and it's for that reason the Script- 
ure ca's them, as I read the passage, the accursed thing. 
Mary, ye girzie,'' he interrupted himself to cry with some 
asperity, “ what for hae ye no put out the twa candle- 
sticks?” 

“ Why should we need them at high noon?” she asked. 

But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea. 
“ We'll bruikf them while we may,” he said; and so two 
massive candlesticks of wrought silver were added to the 
table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough seaside 
farm. 

“ She cam' ashore Februar' 10, about ten at nicht," he 
went on to me. “ There was nae wind, and a sair run o' 
sea; and she was in the sook o' the Boost, as I jaloose. 
We had seen her a' day, Borie and me, beating to the 
wind. She wasnae a handy craft, I'm thinking, that 
‘ Christ- Anna;' for she would neither steer nor stey wi' 
them. A sair day they had of it; their hands was never 
aff the sheets, and it perishin' cauld — ower cauld to snaw; 
and aye they would get a bit nip o' wind, and awa' again, 
to pit the emp'y hope into them. Eh, man! but they had 


* Clock. 


f Enjoy. 


18 


THE MERRY MEM. 


a sair day for the last o't! He would have had a prood, 
prood heart that won ashore upon the back o’ that . 9 9 

“ And were all lost?” I cried. “ God help them!” 

“Wheesht!” he said, sternly. “ Kane shall pray for 
the deid on my hearth-stane. " . 

I disclaimed a Popish sense for my ejaculation; and he 
seemed to accept my disclaimer with unusual facility, and 
ran on once more upon what had evidently become a 
favorite subject. 

“We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an* me, and a* 
thae braws in the inside of her. There's a kittle bit, ye 
see, about Sandag; whiles the sook rins strong for the 
Merry Men; an' whiles again, when the tide's makin' hard 
an' ye can hear the Roost blawin' at the far-end of Aros, 
there comes a back-spang of current straucht into Sandag 
Bay. Weel, there's the thing that got the grip on the 
c Christ- Anna. ' She but to have come in ramstam an' 
stern forrit; for the bows of her are aften under, and the 
back-side of her is clear at hie- water o' neaps. But, man ! 
the dunt that she cam doon wi' when she struck! Lord 
save us a'! but it's an unco life to be a sailor — a cauld, 
wanchancy life. Mony's the gliff I got mysel' in the great 
deep; and why the Lord should hae made yon unco water 
is mair than ever I could win to understand. He made 
the vales and the pastures, the bonny green yaird, the hale- 
some, canty land — 

“ ‘ And now they shout and sing to Thee, 

For Thou hast made them glad,’ 

as the Psalms say in the metrical version. No that I would 
preen my faith to that clink neither; but it's bonny, and 
easier to mind. ‘ Who go to sea in ships,' they hae't 
again — 

“ * And in 

Great waters trading be, 

Within the deep these men God’s works 
And His great wonders see.’ 


THE MERRY MEH. 


19 


Weel, it's easy sayin' sae. May be Dauvit wasnae very 
weel acquant wi' the sea. But troth, if it wasnae prentit 
in the Bible, I wad whiles be temp'it to think it wasnae 
the Lord, but the muckle, black deil that made the sea. 
There's naething good comes oot o't but the fish; an' the 
spentacle o' God riding on the tempest, to be shure, whilk 
would be what Dauvit was likely ettling at. But, man, 
they were sair wonders that God showed to the ‘ Christ- 
Anna ’ — wonders, do I ca' them? Judgments, rather: 
judgments in the mirk nicht among the draygons o' the 
deep. And their souls — to think o' that — their souls, 
man, may be no prepared! The sea — a muckle yett to 
hell!" 

I observed, as my uncle spoke, that his voice was unnat- 
urally moved and his manner unwontedly demonstrative. 
He leaned forward at these last words, for example, and 
touched me on the knee with his spread fingers, looking up 
into my face with a certain pallor, and I could see that his 
eyes shone with a deep-seated fire, and that the lines about 
his mouth were drawn and tremulous. 

Even the entrance of Rorie, and the beginning of our 
meal, did not detach him from his train of thought beyond 
a moment. He condescended, indeed, to ask me some 
questions as to my success at college, but I thought it was 
with half his mind; and even in his extempore grace, 
which was, as usual, long and wandering, I could find the 
trace of his preoccupation, praying, as he did, that God 
would “ remember in mercy fower puir, feckless, fiddling, 
■ sinful creatures here by their lee-lane beside the great and 
dowie waters." 

Soon there came an interchange of speeches between him 
and Rorie. 

“ Was it there?" asked my uncle. 

“ Ou, ay!" said Rorie. 

I observed that they both spoke in a manner of aside, 
and with some show of embarrassment, and that Mary her- 


20 


THE MERRY MEtf. 


self appeared to color, and looked down on her plate. 
Partly to show my knowledge, and so relieve the party 
from an awkward strain, partly because I was curious, I 
pursued the subject. 

44 You mean the fish?” I asked. 

44 Whatten fish?” cried my uncle. 4 4 Fish, quo* he! 
Fish! Your een are fu’ o’ fatness, man; your heid dozened 
wi’ carnal leir. Fish! it’s a bogle!” 

He spoke with great vehemence, as though angry; and 
perhaps I was not willing to be put down so shortly, for 
young men are disputatious. At least I remember I re- 
torted hotly, crying out upon childish superstitions. 

44 And ye come frae the college!” sneered Uncle Gordon. 
44 Gude kens what they learn folk there; it's no muckle 
service onyway. Do ye think, man, that there’s nae thing 
in a’ yon saut wilderness o’ a world oot wast there, wi’ the 
sea grasses grovviiP, an* the sea beasts fechtin\ an’ the sun 
glintin’ down into it, day by day? Na; the sea’s like the 
land, but fearsomer. If there’s folk ashore, there’s folk 
in the sea — deid they may be, but they’re folk whatever; 
and as for deils, there’s nane that’s like the sea deils. 
There’s no sae muckle harm in the land, deils, when a’s 
said and done. Lang syne, when I was a callant in thf 
south country, I mind there was an auld, bald bogle in thi 
Peewie Moss. I got a glisk o’ him mysel’, sittin’ on hia 
hunkers in a hag, as gray’s a tombstane. An’, troth, he 
was a fearsome-like taed. But he steered naebody. Nae 
doobt, if ane that was a reprobate, aue the Lord hated, had 
gane by there wi’ his sin still upon his stomach, nae doobt 
the creature would hae lowped upo the likes o’ him. 
But there’s deils in the deep sea would yoke on a commun- 
icant! Eh, , sirs, if ye had gane doon wi’ the puir lads in 
the 4 Christ-Anna,’ ye would ken by now the mercy o’ the 
seas. If ye had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate 
the tliocht of it as I do. If ye had but used the een God 
gave ye, ye would hae learned the wickedness o’ that fause, # 


THE MERRY MEH. 


21 


saut, cauld, buffering creature, and of a* that*s in it by the 
Lord*s permission : labsters an* partans, an* sic like, howk- 
ing in the deid; muckle, gutsy, blawing whales; an"’ fish — 
the hale clan o* them — cauld-wamed, blind-eed uncanny 
ferlies. Oh, sirs/* he cried, 44 the horror — the horror o* 
the sea!** 

We were all somewhat staggered by this outburst; and 
the speaker himself, after that last hoarse apostrophe, ap- 
peared to sink gloomily into his own thoughts. But Rorie, 
who was greedy of superstitious lore, recalled him to the 
subject by a question. 

“ You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?” he 
asked. 

44 No clearly,** replied the other, 4 4 1 misdoobt if a mere 
man could see ane clearly and conteenue in the body. I 
hae sailed wi* a lad-— they ca*d him Sandy Gabart; he saw 
ane, shiire eneuch, an* shiire eneuch it was the end of him. 
We were seeven days oot frae the Clyde — a sair wark we 
had had — gaun north wi* seeds an* braws an* things for 
the Macleod. We had got in ower near under the Cut- 
chull’ns, an* had just gane about by Soa, an* were off on a 
lang tack, we thocht would may be hauld as far*s Copna- 
how. I mind the nicht weel; a mune smoored wi* mist; a 
fine gaun breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an* — what 
nane o* us likit to hear — anither wund gurlin* owerheid, 
amang tbae fearsome, auld stane craigs o* the Cutchull*ns. 
Weel, Sandy was forrit wi* the jib sheet; we couldnae see 
him for the mains *1, that had just begude to draw, when a* 
at ance he gied a skirl. I luffed for my life, for I thocht 
we were ower near Soa; but na, it wasnae that, it was puir 
Sandy Gabart*s deid skreigh, or near hand, for he was deid 
in half an hour. A*t he could tell was that a sea deil, or 
sea bogle, or sea spenster, or sic-like, had clum up by the 
bowsprit, an* gi*en him ae cauld, uncanny look. An*, or 
the life was oot o* Sandy*s body, we kent weel what the 
thing betokened, and why the wund gurled in the taps o* 


22 


THE MERRY MEH. 


the Cutchull*ns; for doon it cam’ — a wund do I ca* it! it 
was the wund o* the Lord*s anger — an* a* that nicht we 
foucht like men demen tit, and the niest that we kenned we 
ashore in Loch Uskevagh, an* the cocks were era win* in 
Benbecula.** 

“ It will have been a merman/* Rorie said. 

“A merman!** screamed my uncle, with immeasurable 
scorn. “ Auld wives* clavers! There*s nae sic things as 
mermen.** 

“ But what was the creature like?** I asked. 

“ What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken what 
like it was! It had a kind of a heid upon it — man could 
say nae mair.** 

Then Rorie, smarting under the affront, told several 
tales of mermen, mermaids, and sea-horses that had come 
ashore upon the islands and attacked the crews of boats 
upon the sea; and my uncle, in spite of his incredulity, 
listened with uneasy interest. 

“ Aweel, aweel,** he said, “it may be sae; I may be 
wrang; but I find nae word o* mermen in the Scriptures.** 

“ And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, may be,** 
objected Rorie, and his argument appeared to carry weight. 

When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth with 
him to a bank behind the house. It was a very hot and 
quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple anywhere upon the sea, 
nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep and gulls; 
and perhaps in consequence of this repose in nature, my 
kinsman showed himself more rational and tranquil than 
before. He spoke evenly and almost cheerfully of my 
career, with every now and then a reference to the lost ship 
or the treasures it had brought to Aros. Bor my part, I 
listened to .him in a sort of trance, gazing with all my 
heart on that remembered scene, and drinking gladly the 
sea-air and the smoke of peats that had been lit by Mary. 

Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who had all 
the while been covertly gazing on the surface of the little 


THE MERRY MEM. 


23 


bay, rose to his feet and bade me follow his example. Now 
I should say that the great run of tide at the south-west 
end of Aros exercises a perturbing influence round all the 
coast. In Sandag Bay, to the south, a strong current runs 
at certain periods of the flood and ebb respectively; but in 
this northern bay — Aros Bay, as it is called — where the 
house stands and on which my uncle was now gazing, the 
only sign of disturbance is toward the end of the ebb, and 
even then it is too slight to be remarkable. When there is 
any swell, nothing can be seen at all; but when it is calm, 
as it often is, there appear certain strange, undecipherable 
marks— sea-runes, as we may name them — on the glassy 
surface of the bay. The like is common in a thousand 
places on the coast; and many a boy must have amused 
himself as I did, seeking to read in them some reference to 
himself or those he loved. It was to these marks that my 
uncle now directed my attention, struggling as he did so, 
with an evident reluctance. 

“Do ye see yon scart upo 5 the water? 5 * he inquired; 
“ yon ane wast the gray stane? Ay? Weel, it T1 no be 
like a letter, wull it? 55 

“ Certainly it is, 55 I replied. “ I have often remarked 
it. It is like a C. 5 5 

He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my an- 
swer, and then added below his breath: “ Ay, for the 
‘ Christ- Anna. 5 55 

“ I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself/ 5 said I; “ for 
my name is Charles. 5 5 

“ And so ye saw 5 t afore? 55 he ran on, not heeding my re- 
mark. “ Weel, weel, but that 5 s unco strange. May be, 
it 5 s been there waitin 5 , as a man wad say, through a 5 the 
weary ages. Man, but that 5 s awfu 5 . 55 And then, break- 
ing off: “ YeTl no see amther, will ye? 55 he asked. 

“ Yes, 55 said I. “I see another very plainly, near the 
Ross side, where the road comes down — an M. 55 


2 4 


THE MERRY MEN". 


“An M," he repeated, very low; and then, again after 
another pause: “ An' what wad ye make o' that?" he in- 
quired. 

“ I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir," I an- 
swered, growing somewhat red* convinced as I was in my 
own mind that I was on the threshold of a decisive ex- 
planation. 

But we were each following his own train of thought to 
the exclusion of the other's. My uncle once more paid no 
attention to my words; only hung his head and held his 
peace; and I might have been led to fancy that he had not 
heard me, if his next speech had not contained a kind of 
echo from my own. 

“ I would say nae thing o' thae clavers to Mary," he ob- 
served, and began to walk forward. 

There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros Bay where 
walking is easy; and it was along this that I silently fol- 
lowed my silent kinsman. I was perhaps a little disap- 
pointed at having lost so good an opportunity to declare 
my love; but I was at the same time far more deeply exer- 
cised at the change that had befallen my uncle. He was 
never an ordinary, never, in the strict sense, an amiable, 
man; but there was nothing in even the worst that I had 
known of him before, to prepare me for so strange a trans- 
formation. It was impossible to close the eyes against one 
fact; that he had, as the saying goes, something on his 
mind; and as I mentally ran over the different words which 
might be represented by the letter M — misery, mercy, mar- 
riage, money, and the like— I was arrested with a sort of 
start by the word murder. I was still considering the 
ugly sound and fatal meaning of the word, when the direc- 
tion of our walk brought ns to a point from which a view 
was to be had to either side, back toward Aros Bay and 
homestead, and forward on the ocean, dotted to the north 
with isles, and lying to the southward blue and open to 
the sky. There my guide came to a halt, and stood star- 


THE MERRY MEM. 


25 


ing for awhile on that expanse. Then he turned to me 
and laid a hand on my arm. 

“ Ye think there's naething there?" he said, pointing 
with his pipe; and then cried out aloud, with a kind of ex- 
ultation: “ I'll tell ye, man! The deid are down there — 
thick like rattons!" 

He turned at once, and, without another word, we re- 
traced our steps to the house of Aros. 

I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was not till 
after supper, and then but for a short while, that I could 
have a word with her. I lost no time beating about the 
bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my mind. 

“ Mary," I said, “ I have not come to Aros without a 
hope. If that should prove well founded, we may all leave 
and go somewhere else, secure of daily bread and comfort; 
secure, perhaps, of something far beyond that, which it 
would seem extravagant in me to promise. But there's a 
hope that lies nearer to my heart than money. " And at 
that I paused. “ You can guess fine what that is, Mary," 
I said. She looked away from me in silence, and that was 
small encouragement, but I was not to be put off. “ All 
my days I have thought the world of you," I continued; 
“ the time goes on and I think always the more of you; I 
could not think to be happy or hearty in my life without 
you: you are the apple of my eye." Still she looked away, 
and said never a word ; but I thought I saw that her hands 
shook. “ Mary," I cried, in fear, “ do ye no like me?" 

“ Oh, Charley, man," she said, “ is this a time to speak 
of it? Let me be, awhile; let me be the way I am; it'll 
not be you that loses by the waiting!" 

I made out by her voice that she was nearly weeping, 
and this put me out of any thought but to compose her. 
“ Mary Ellen," I said, “ say no more; I did not come to 
trouble you: your way shall be mine, and your time too; 
and you have told me all I wanted. Only just tins one 
thing more: what ails you?" 


2G 


THE MERRY MEtf. 


She owned it was her father, but would enter into no 
particulars, only shook her head, and said he was not well 
and not like himself, and it was a great pity. She knew 
nothing of the wreck. “ I ha venae been near it,” said 
she. “ What for would I go near it, Charley lad? The 
poor souls are gone to their account long syne; and I 
would just have wished they had ta’en their gear with 
them — poor souls!” 

This was scarcely any great encouragement for me to 
tell her of the “ Espirito Santo;” yet I did so, and at the 
very first word she cried out in surprise. “ There was a 
man at Grisapol,” she said, “ in the month of May — a 
little, yellow, black-avised body, they tell me, with gold 
rings upon his fingers, and a beard; and he was speiring 
high and low for that same ship.” 

It was toward the end of April that I had been given 
these papers to sort out by Dr. Robertson: and it came 
suddenly back upon my mind that they were thus prepared 
for a Spanish historian, or a man calling himself such, 
who had come with high recommendations to the princi- 
pal, on a mission of inquiry as to the dispersion of the great 
Armada. Putting one thing with another, I fancied that 
the visitor “ with the gold rings upon his fingers ” might 
be the same with Dr. Robertson’s historian from Madrid. 
If that were so, he would be more likely after treasure for 
himself than information for a learned societj 7 . I made up 
my mind, I should lose no time over my undertaking; and 
if the ship lay sunk in Sandag Bay, as perhaps both he and 
I supposed, it should not be for the advantage of this 
ringed adventurer, but for Mary and myself, and for the 
good, old, honest, kindly family of the Darnaways. 


THE MEKRY MEET. 


27 


CHAPTER HI. 

LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY. 

I was early afoot next morning; and as soon as I had a 
bite to eat, set forth upon a tour of exploration. Some- 
thing in my heart distinctly told me that I should find the 
ship of the Armada; and although I did not give way en- 
tirely to such hopeful thoughts, I was still very light in 
spirits and walked upon air. Aros is a very rough islet, its 
surface strewn with great rocks and shaggy with fern and 
heather; and my way lay almost north and south across 
the highest knoll; and though the whole distance was inside 
of two miles, it took more time and exertion than four 
upon a level road. Upon the summit, I paused. Al- 
though not very high — not three hundred feet, as I think 
— it yet out-tops all the neighboring lowlands of the Ross, 
and commands a great view of sea and islands. The sun, 
which had been up some time, was already hot upon my 
neck; the air was listless and thundery, although purely 
clear; away over the north-west, where the isles lie thick- 
liest congregated, some half a dozen small and ragged 
clouds hung together in a covey; and the head of Ben 
Kyaw wore, not merely a few streamers, but a solid hood 
of vapor. There was a threat in the weather. The sea, 
it is true, was smooth like glass: even the Roost was but a 
seam on that wide mirror, and the Merry Men no more 
than caps of foam; but to my eye and ear, so long familiar 
with these places, the sea also seemed to lie uneasily; a 
sound of it, like a long sigh, mounted to me where I stood; 
and, quiet as it was, the Roost itself appeared to be re- 
volving mischief. For I ought to say that all we dwellers 
in these parts attributed, if not prescience, at least a quality 


28 


THE MERRY MEH. 


of warning, to that strange and dangerous creature of the 
tides. 

I hurried on, then, with the greater speed, and had soon 
descended the slope of Aros to the part that we call San- 
dag Bay. It is a pretty large piece of water compared 
with the size of the isle; well sheltered from all but the 
prevailing wind; sandy and shoal and bounded by low 
sand-hills to the west, but to the eastward lying several 
fathoms deep along a ledge of* rocks. It is upon that side 
that, at a certain time each flood, the current mentioned 
by my uncle sets so strong into the bay; a little later, 
when the Roost begins to work higher, an undertow runs 
still more strongly in the reverse direction; and it is the 
action of this last, as I suppose, that has scoured that part 
so deep. Nothing is to be seen out of Sandag Bay but one 
small segment of the horizon, and, in heavy weather, the 
breakers flying high over a deep sea reef. 

From half-way down the hill, I had perceived the wreck 
of February last, a brig of considerable tonnage, lying, 
with her back broken, high and dry on the east corner of 
the sands; and I was making directly toward it, and al- 
ready almost on the margin of the turf, when my eyes were 
suddenly arrested by a spot, cleared of fern and heather, 
and marked by one of tjiose long, low, and almost human - 
looking mounds that we see so commonly in grave-yards. 
I stopped like a man shot. Nothing had been said to me 
of any dead man or interment on the island; Rorie, Mary, 
and my uncle had all equally held their peace; of her, at 
least, I was certain that she must be ignorant; and yet 
here, before my eyes, was proof indubitable of the fact. 
Here was a grave; and I had to ask myself, with a chill, 
what manner of man lay there in his last sleep, awaiting 
the signal of the Lord in that solitary, sea-beat resting- 
place? My mind supplied no answer but what I feared to 
entertain. Shipwrecked, at least, he must have been; per- 
haps, like the old Armada mariners, from some far and 


THE MERRY MEM. 


29 


rich land oyer-sea; or perhaps one of my own race, perish- 
ing within eyesight of the smoke of home. I stood awhile 
uncovered by his side, and I could have desired that it had 
lain in our religion to put up some prayer for that unhap- 
py stranger, or, in the old classic way, outwardly to honor 
his misfortune. I knew, although his bones lay there, a 
part of Aros, till the trumpet sounded, his imperishable 
soul was forth and far away, among the raptures of the 
everlasting Sabbath or the pangs of hell; and yet my mind 
misgave me even with a fear, that perhaps he was near me 
where I stood, guarding his sepulcher, and lingering on 
the scene of his unhappy fate. 

Certainly it was with a spirit somewhat overshadowed 
that I turned away from the grave to the hardly less mel- 
ancholy spectacle of the wreck. Her stem was above the 
first arc of the flood; she was broken in two a little abaft 
the foremast — though indeed she had none, both masts 
having broken short in her disaster; and as the pitch of 
the beach was very sharp and sudden, and the bows lay 
many feet below the stern, the fracture gaped widely open, 
and you could see right through her poor hull upon the 
further side. Her name was much defaced, and I could 
not make out clearly whether she was called “ Christi- 
ania," after the Norwegian city, or “ Christiana," after 
the good woman. Christian/s wife, in that old book the 
“Pilgrim's Progress." By her build she was a foreign 
ship, but I was not certain of her nationality. She had 
been painted green, but the color was faded and weathered, 
and the paint peeling off in strips. The wreck of the 
mainmast lay alongside, half buried in sand. She was a 
forlorn sight, indeed, and I could not look without emotion 
at the bits of rope that still hung about her, so often 
handled of yore by shouting seamen; or the little scuttle 
where they had passed up and down to their affairs; or 
that poor noseless angel of a figure-head that had dipped 
into so many running billows. 


30 


THE MERRY MEH. 


I do not know whether it came most from the ship or 
from the grave, but I fell into some melancholy scruples, 
as I stood there, leaning with one hand against the bat- 
tered timbers. The homelessness of men and even of in- 
animate vessels, cast away upon strange shores, came 
strongly in upon my mind. To make a profit of such piti- 
ful misadventures seemed an unmanly and a sordid act; and 
I began to think of my then quest as of something sacri- 
legious in its nature. But when I remembered Mary, I 
took heart again. My uncle would never consent to an 
imprudent marriage, nor would she, as I was persuaded, 
wed without his full approval. It behooved me, then, to be 
up and doing for my wife; and I thought with a laugh how 
long it was since that great sea-castle the 4 4 Espirito San- 
to,” had left her bones in Sandag Bay, and how weak it 
would be to consider rights so long extinguished and mis- 
fortunes so long forgotten in the process of time. 

I had my theory of where to seek for her remains. The 
set of the current and the soundings both pointed to the 
east side of the bay under the ledge of rocks. If she had 
been lost in Sandag Bay, and if, after these centuries, any 
portion of her held together, it was there that I should find 
it. The water deepens, as I have said, with great rapidity, 
and even close alongside the rocks several fathoms may be 
found. As I walked upon the edge I could see far and 
wide over the sandy bottom of the bay; the sun shone clear 
and green and steady in the deeps; the bay seemed rather 
like a great transparent crystal, as one sees them in a 
lapidary’s shop; there was naught to show that it was water 
but an internal trembling, a hovering within of sun-glints 
and netted shadows, and now and then a faint lap and a 
dying bubble round the edge. The shadows of the rocks 
lay out for some distance at their feet, so that my own 
shadow, moving, pausing, and stooping on the top of that, 
reached sometimes half across the bay. It was above all 
in this belt of shadows that I hunted for the 4 4 Espirito 


THE MERRY ME H. 


31 


Santo ;” since it was there the undertow ran strongest, 
whether in or out. Cool as the whole water seemed this 
broiling day, it looked, in that part, yet cooler, and had a 
mysterious invitation for the eyes. Peer as I pleased, 
however, I could see nothing but a few fishes or a bush of 
sea-tangle, and here and there a lump of rock that had 
fallen from above and now lay separate on the sandy floor. 
Twice did I pass from one end to the other of the rocks, 
and in the whole distance I could see nothing of the wreck, 
nor any place but one where it was possible for it to be. 
This was a large terrace in five fathoms of water, raised off 
the surface of the sand to a considerable height, and look- 
ing from above like a mere outgrowth of the rocks on 
which I walked. It was one mass of great sea-tangles like 
a grove, which prevented me judging of its nature, bi;t in 
shape and size it bore some likeness to a vessePs hull. At 
least it was my best chance. If the “ Espirito Santo 99 lay 
not there under the tangles, it lay nowhere at all in San- 
dag Bay; and I prepared to put the question to the proof, 
once and for all, and either go back to Aros a rich man or 
cured forever of my dreams of wealth. 

I stripped to the skin, and stood on the extreme margin 
with my hands clasped, irresolute. The bay at that time 
was utterly quiet; there was no sound but from a school of 
porpoises somewhere out of sight behind the point; yet a 
certain fear withheld me on the threshold of my vent- 
ure. Sad sea-feelings, scraps of my uncle's superstitions, 
thoughts of the dead, of the grave, of the old broken ships, 
drifted through my mind. But the strong sun upon my * 
shoulders warmed me to the heart, and I stooped forward 
and plunged into the sea. 

It was all that I could do to catch a trail of the sea-tan- 
gle that grew so thickly on the terrace; but once so far 
anchored I secured myself by grasping a whole armful of 
these thick and slimy stalks, and, planting my feet against 
the edge, I looked around me. On all sides the clear sand 


32 


THE MERRY MEH. 


stretched forth unbroken; it came to the foot of the rocks, 
scoured into the likeness of an alley in a garden by the 
action of the tides; and before me, for as far as I could see, 
nothing was visible but the same many-folded sand upon 
the sun-bright bottom of the bay. Yet the terrace to 
which I was then holding was as thick with strong sea- 
growths as a tuft of heather, and the cliff from which it 
bulged hung draped below the water-line with brown lianas. 
In this complexity of forms, all swaying together in the 
current, things were hard to be distinguished; and I was 
still uncertain whether my feet were pressed upon the nat- 
ural rock or upon the timbers of the Armada treasure-ship, 
when the whole tuft of tangle came away in my hand, and 
in an instant I was on the surface, and the shores of the 
bay and the bright water swam before my eyes in a glory 
of crimson. 

I clambered back upon the rocks, and threw the plant of 
tangle at my feet. Something at the same moment rang 
sharply, like a falling coin. I stooped, and there, sure 
enough, crusted with the red rust, there lay an iron shoe- 
buckle. The sight of this poor human relic thrilled me to 
the heart, but not with hope nor fear, only with a desolate 
melancholy. I held it in my hand, and the thought of its 
owner appeared before me like the presence of an actual 
man. His weather-beaten face, his sailor’s hands, his sea- 
voice hoarse with singing at the capstan, the very foot that 
had once worn that buckle and trod so much along the 
swerving decks — the whole human fact of him, as a creat- 
ure like myself, with hair and blood and seeing eyes, 
haunted me in that sunny, solitary place, not like a spec- 
ter, but like some friend whom I had basely injured. Was 
the great treasure ship indoed below there, with her guns 
and chain and treasure, as she had sailed from Spain; her 
decks a garden for the seaweed, her cabin a breeding-place 
for fish, soundless but for the dredging water, motionless 
but for the waving of the tangle upon her battlements — 


THE MERRY HEH. 


83 


that old, populous, sea-riding castle, now a reef in Sandag 
Bay? Or, as I thought it likelier, was this a waif from the 
disaster of the foreign brig — was this shoe-buckle bought 
but the other day and worn by a man of my own period in 
the world's history, hearing the same news from day to 
day, thinking the same thoughts, praying, perhaps, in the 
same temple with myself? However it was, I was assailed 
with dreary thoughts; my uncle's words, “ the dead are 
down there," echoed in my ears; and though I determined 
to dive once more, it was with a strong repugnance that I 
stepped forward to the margin of the rocks. 

A great change passed at that moment over the appear- 
ance of the bay. It was no more that clear, visible interior, 
like a house roofed with glass, where the green, submarine 
sunshine slept so stilly. A breeze, I suppose, had flawed 
the surface, and a sort of trouble and blackness filled its 
bosom, where flashes of light and clouds of shadow tossed 
confusedly together. Even the terrace below obscurely 
rocked and quivered. It seemed a graver thing to venture 
on this place of ambushes; and when I leaped into the sea 
the second time it was with a quaking in my soul. 

I secured myself as at first, and groped among the wav- 
ing tangle. All that met my touch was cold ami soft and 
gluey. The thicket was alive with crabs and lobsters, 
trundling to and fro lopsidedly, and I had to harden my 
heart against the horror of their carrion neighborhood. On 
all sides I could feel the grain and clefts of hard, living 
stone; no planks, no iron, not a sign of any wreck; the 
“ Espirito Santo" was not there. I remember I had 
almost a sense of relief in my disappointment, and I was 
about ready to leave go, when something happened that 
sent me to the surface with my heart in my mouth. I had 
already stayed somewhat late over my explorations; the 
current was freshening with the change of the tide, and 
Sandag Bay was no longer a safe place for a single swim- 
mer. Well, just at the last moment there came a sudden 
2 


34 


THE MERRY MEN". 


flush of current, dredging through the tangles like a wave. 
I lost one hold, was flung sprawling on my side, and, in- 
stinctively grasping for a fresh support, my fingers closed 
on something hard and cold. I think I knew at that mo- 
ment what it was. At least I instantly left hold of the 
tangle, leaped for the surface, and clambered out next mo* 
ment on the friendly rocks with the bone of a man's leg in 
my grasp. 

Mankind is a material creature, slow to think and dull 
to perceive connections. The grave, the wreck of the brig, 
and the rusty shoe-buckle were surely plain advertisements. 
A child might have read their dismal story, and yet it was 
not until I touched that actual piece of mankind that the 
full horror of the charnel ocean burst upon my spirit. I 
laid the bone beside the buckle, picked up my clothes, and 
ran as I was along the rocks toward the human shore. I 
could not be far enough from the spot; no fortune was 
vast enough to tempt me back again. The bones of the 
drowned dead should henceforth roll undisturbed by me, 
whether on tangle or minted gold. But as soon as I trod 
the earth again, and had covered my nakedness against the 
sun, I knelt down over against the ruins of the brig, and 
out of the fullness of my heart prayed long and passion- 
ately for all poor souls upon the sea. A generous prayer is 
never presented in vain; the petition may be refused, but 
the petitioner is always, I believe, rewarded by some gra- 
cious visitation. The horror, at least, was lifted from my 
mind; I could look with calm of spirit on that great bright 
creature, God's ocean; and as I set off homeward up the 
rough sides of Aros, nothing remained of any concern be- 
yond a deep determination to meddle no more with the 
spoils of wrecked vessels or the treasures of the dead. 

I was already some way up the hill before I paused to 
breathe and look behind me. The sight that met my eyes 
was doubly strange. 

Bor, first, the storm that I had foreseen was now ad- 


THE MERRY MEK. 


35 


vancing with almost tropical rapidity. The whole surface 
of the sea had been dulled from its conspicuous brightness 
to an ugly hue of corrugated lead; already in the distance 
the white waves, the “ skipper's daughters," had begun to 
flee before a breeze that was still insensible on Aros; and 
already along the curve of Sandag Bay there was a splash- 
ing run of sea that I could hear from where I stood. The 
change upon the sky was even more remarkable. There 
had begun to arise out of the south-west a huge and solid 
continent of scowling cloud; here and there, through rents 
in its contexture, the sun still poured a sheaf of spreading 
rays; and here and there, from all its edges, vast inky 
streamers lay forth along the yet unclouded sky. The 
menace was express and imminent. Even as I gazed, the 
sun was blotted out. At any moment the tempest might 
fall upon Aros in its might. 

The suddenness of this change of weather so fixed my 
eyes on heaven that it was some seconds before they alight- 
ed on the bay, mapped out below my feet, and robbed a 
moment later of the sun. The knoll which I had just sur- 
mounted overflanked a little amphitheater of lower hillocks 
sloping toward the sea, and beyond that the yellow arc of 
beach and the whole extent of Sandag Bay. It was a scene 
on which I had often looked down, but where I had never 
before beheld a human figure. I had but just turned my 
back upon it and left it empty, and my wonder may be 
fancied when I saw a boat and several men in that deserted 
spot. The boat was lying by the rocks. A pair of fel- 
lows, bareheaded, with their sleeves rolled up, and one with 
a boat-hook, kept her with difficulty to her moorings, for 
the current was growing brisker every moment. A little 
way off upon the ledge two men in black clothes, whom I 
judged to be superior in rank, laid their heads together over 
some task which at first I did not understand, but a second 
after I had made it out — they were taking bearings with 
the compass; and just then I saw one of them unroll a 


36 


THE MERRY MEH. 


sheet of paper and lay his finger down, as though identify- 
ing features in a map. Meanwhile a third was walking to 
and fro, poking among the rocks and peering over the 
edge into the water. While I was still watching them with 
the stupefaction of surprise, my mind hardly yet able to 
work on what my eyes reported, this third person suddenly 
stooped and summoned his companions with a cry so loud 
that it reached my ears upon the hill. The others ran to 
him, even dropping the compass in their hurry, and I could 
see the bone and the shoe-buckle going from hand to hand, 
causing the most unusual gesticulations of surprise and in- 
terest. Just then I could hear the seamen crying from the 
boat, and saw them point westward to that cloud continent 
which was ever the more rapidly unfurling its blackness 
over heaven. The others seemed to consult; but the dan- 
ger was too pressing to be braved, and they bundled into 
the boat carrying my relics with them, and set forth out of 
the bay with all speed of oars. 

I made no more ado about .the matter, but turned and 
ran for the house. Whoever these men were, it was fit my 
uncle should be instantly informed. It was not then alto- 
gether too late in the day for a descent of the Jacobites; 
and may be Prince Charlie, whom I knew my uncle to de- 
test, was one of the three superiors whom I had seen upon 
the rock. Yet as I ran, leaping from rock to rock, and 
turned the matter loosely in my mind, this theory grew 
ever the longer the less welcome to my reason. The com- 
pass, the map, the interest awakened by the buckle, and 
the conduct of that one among the strangers who had 
looked so often below him in the water, all seemed to point 
to a different explanation of their presence on that outly- 
ing, obscure islet of the western sea. The Madrid his- 
torian, the search instituted by Dr. Robertson, the bearded 
stranger with the rings, my own fruitless search that very 
morning in the deep water of Sandag Bay, ran together, 
piece by piece, in my memory, and I made sure that these 


THE MEKKY MEN. 


37 


strangers must be Spaniards in quest of ancient treasure 
and the lost ship of the Armada. But the people living in 
outlying islands, such as Aros, are answerable for their own 
security; there is none near by to protect or even to help 
them; and the presence in such a spot of a crew of foreign 
adventurers— poor, greedy, and most likely lawless — filled 
me with apprehensions for my uncle's money, and even for 
the safety of his daughter. I was still wondering how we 
were to get rid of them when I came, all breathless, to the 
top of Aros. The whole world was shadowed over; only 
in the extreme east, on a hill of the mainland, one last 
gleam of sunshine lingered like a jewel; rain had begun to 
fall, not heavily, but in great drops; the sea was rising 
with each moment, and already a band of white encircled 
Aros and the nearer coasts of Grisapol. The boat was still 
pulling seaward, but I now became aware of what had been 
hidden from me lower down — a large, heavily sparred, 
handsome schooner, lying to at the south end of Aros. 
Since I had not seen her in the morning when I had looked 
around so closely at the signs of the weather, and upon 
these lone waters where a sail was rarely visible, it was 
clear she must have lain last night behind the uninhabited 
Eilean Gour, and this proved conclusively that she was 
manned by strangers to our coast, for that anchorage, 
though good enough to look at, is little better than a trap 
for ships. With such ignorant sailors upon so wild a 
poast, the coming gale was not unlikely to bring death 
upon its wings. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE GALE. 

I found my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs 
of the weather, with a pipe in his fingers. 

“ Uncle," said I, “ there were men ashore at Sandag 
Bay-" 


38 


THE MERRY MEN. 


I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only forgot 
my words, but even my weariness, so strange was the effect 
on Uncle Gordon. He dropped his pipe and fell back 
against the end of the house with his jaw fallen, his eyes 
staring, and his long face as white as paper. We must 
have looked at one another silently for a quarter of a min- 
ute, before he made answer in this extraordinary fashion: 
“ Had he a hair kep on?” 

I knew as well as if I had been there that the man who 
now lay buried at Sandag had worn a hairy cap, and that 
he had come ashore alive. For the first and only time 1 
lost toleration for the man who was my benefactor and the 
father of the woman I hoped to call my wife. 

“ These were living men,” said I, “ perhaps Jacobites, 
perhaps the French, perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers 
come here to seek the Spanish treasure ship; but, whatever 
they may be, dangerous at least to your daughter and my 
cousin. As for your own guilty terrors, man, the dead 
sleeps well where you have laid him. I stood this morning 
by his grave; he will not wake before the trump of doom.” 

My kinsman looked upon me, blinking, while I spoke; 
then he fixed his eyes for a little on the ground, and pulled 
his fingers foolishly; but it was plain that he was past the 
power of speech. 

“ Come,” said I. “ You must think for others. You 
must come up the hill with me, and see this ship.” 

He obeyed without a word or a look, following slowly 
after my impatient strides. The spring seemed to have 
gone out of his body, and he scrambled heavily up and 
down the rocks, instead of leaping, as he was wont, from 
one to another. Nor could I, for all my cries, induce him 
to make better haste. Only once he replied to me com- 
plainingly, and like one in bodily pain: “Ay, ay, man. 
Fin coming.” Long before we had reached the top, I 
had no other thought for him but pity. If the crime had 
been monstrous, the punishment was in proportion. 


THE MERRY MEM. 


39 


At last we emerged above the sky-line of the hill, and 
could see around us. All was black and stormy to the eye; 
the last gleam of sun had vanished; a wind had sprung up, 
not yet high, but gusty and unsteady to the point; the 
rain, on the other hand, had ceased. Short as was the in- 
terval, the sea already ran vastly higher than when I had 
stood there last; already it had begun to break over some 
of the outward reefs, and already it moaned aloud in the 
sea- caves of Aros. I looked at first, in vain for the 
schooner. 

“ There she is,” I said at last. But her new position, 
and the course she was now lying, puzzled me. “ They 
can not mean to beat to sea,” I cried. 

“ That's what they mean,” said my uncle, with some- 
thing like joy; and just then the schooner went about and 
stood upon another tack, which put the question beyond 
the reach of doubt. These strangers, seeing a gale on 
hand, had thought first of sea-room. With the wind that 
threatened, in these reef-sown waters and contending 
against so violent a stream of tide, their course was certain 
death. 

“ Good God!" said I, “ they are all lost." 

“Ay,” returned my uncle, “a' — a' lost. They had 
nae a chance but to rin for Kyle Dona. The gate they're 
gaun the noo, they couldnae win through an the muekle 
deil were there to pilot them. Eh, man," he continued, 
touching me on the sleeve, “ it's a braw nicht'for a ship- 
wreck! Twa in ae twalmonth! Eh, but the Merry Men 
'11 dance bonny!” 

I looked at him, and it was then that I began to fancy 
him no longer in his right mind. Hb was peering up to 
me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his eyes. All that 
had passed between us was already forgotten in the pros- 
pect of this fresh disaster. 

“ If it were not too late,” I cried, with indignation, “ I 
would take the coble and go out to warn them.” 


40 


THE MERRY MEN - .. 


44 Na, na,” he protested, 44 ye mammae interfere; ye 
maannae meddle wi* the like o* that. It's His ” — doffing 
his bonnet — 44 His wall. And, eh, man! but it's a braw 
nicht for't!” 

Something like fear began to creep into my soul; and, 
reminding him that I had not yet dined, I proposed we 
should return to the house. But no; nothing would tear 
him from his place of outlook. 

“I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherley,” he ex- 
plained; and then as the schooner went about a second 
time, 44 Eh, but they handle her bonny!” he cried. 44 The 
4 Christ-Anna 9 was naething to this . 99 

Already the men on board the schooner must have be- 
gun to realize some part, but not yet the twentieth, of the 
dangers that environed their doomed ship. At every lull 
of the capricious wind they must have seen how fast the 
current swept them back. Each tack was made shorter, 
as they saw how little it prevailed. Every moment the 
rising swell began to boom and foam upon another sunken 
reef; and ever and again a breaker would fall in sounding 
ruin under the very bows of her, and the brown reef and 
streaming tangle appear in the hollow of the wave. I tell 
you, they had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle 
man aboard that ship, God knows. It was upon the prog- 
ress of a scene so horrible to any human-hearted man that 
my misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a con- 
noisseur. As I turned to go down the hill, he was lying 
on his belly on the summit, with his hands stretched forth 
and clutching in the heather. He seemed rejuvenated, 
mind and body. 

When I got back to the house already dismally affected, 
I was still more sadly downcast at the sight of Mary. She 
had her sleeves rolled up over her strong arms, and was 
quietly making bread. I got a bannock from the dresser 
and sat down to eat it in silence. 

44 Are ye wearied, lad?” she asked after awhile. 


THE MERRY MEN. 


41 


“ I am not so much wearied, Mary,” I replied, getting 
on my feet, “ as I am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros 
too. You know me well- enough to judge me fairly, say 
what I like. Well, Mary, you may be sure of this: you 
had better be anywhere but here.” 

“ I’ll be sure of one thing,” she returned: “ Fll be 
where my duty is.” 

“You forget, you have a duty to yourself,” I said. 

“ Ay, man?” she replied, pounding at the dough; “ will 
you have found that in the Bible, now?” 

“ Mary,” I said, solemnly, “ you must not laugh at me 
just now. God knows I am in no heart for laughing. If 
we could get your father with us, it would be best; but 
with him or without him, I want you far away from here, 
my girl; for your own sake, and for mine, ay, and for 
your father's too, I want you far — far away from here. I 
came with other thoughts; I came here as a man comes 
home; now it is all changed, and I have no desire nor hope 
but to* flee — for that’s the word — flee, like a bird out of the 
fowler’s snare, from this accursed island.” 

She had stopped her work by this time. 

“And do you think, now,” said she, “do you think, 
now, I have neither eyes nor ears? Bo ye think I havenae 
broken my heart to have these braws (as he calls them, 
God forgive him!) thrown into the sea? Do ye think I have 
lived with him, day in, day out, and not seen what you saw 
in an hour or two? No,” she said, “ I know there’s 
wrong in it; what wrong, I neither know nor want to 
know. There was never an ill tiling made better by med- 
dling, that I could hear of. But, my lad, you must never 
ask me to leave my father. While the breath is in his 
body. I’ll be with him. And he’s not long for here, either: 
that I can tell you, Charley— he’s not long for here. The 
mark is on his brow; and better so — may be better so.” 

I was awhile silent, not knowing what to say; and when 
I roused my head at last to speak, she got before me. 


42 


THE MERRY MEM. 


“ Charley,” she said, i{ what's right for me, neednae be 
right for you. There's sin upon this house and trouble; 
you are a stranger; take your things upon your back and 
go your ways to better places and to better folk, and if you 
were ever minded to come back, though it were twenty 
years syne, you would find me aye waiting . 99 

“ Mary Ellen," I said, “ I asked you to be my wife, and 
you said as good as yes. That's done for good. Wherever 
you are, lam; as I shall answer to my God.'' 

As I said the words, the wind suddenly burst out rav- 
ing, and then seemed to stand still and shudder round the 
house of Aros. It was the first squall, or prologue, of the 
coming tempest, and as we started and looked about us, 
we found that a gloom, like the approach of evening, had 
settled round the house. 

“ God pity all poor folks at sea!'' she said. “ We'll see 
no more of my father till the morrow's morning. " 

And then she told me, as we sat by the fire and heark- 
ened to the rising gusts, of how this change had fallen 
upon my uncle. All last winter he had been dark and fit- 
ful in his mind. Whenever the Roost ran high, or, as 
Mary said, whenever the Merry Men were dancing, he 
would lie out for hours together on the Head, if it were at 
night, or on the top of Aros by day, watching the tumult 
of the sea, and sweeping the horizon for a sail. After 
February the tenth, when the wealth-bringing wreck was 
cast ashore at Sandag, he had been at first unnaturally 
gay, and his excitement had never fallen in degree, but 
only changed in kind from dark to darker. He neglected 
his work, and kept Rorie idle. They two would speak to- 
gether by the hour at the gable end, in guarded tones and 
with an air of secrecy and almost of guilt; and if she ques- 
tioned either, as at first she sometimes did, her inquiries 
were put aside with confusion. Since Rorie had first re- 
marked the fish that hung about the ferry, his master had 
never set foot but once upon the mainland of the Ross. 


THE MERRY MEM. 


43 

That once — it was in the height of the springs — he had 
passed dryshod while the tide was out; but, having lingered 
overlong on the far side, found himself cut off from Aros 
by the returning waters. It was with a shriek of agony 
that he had leaped across the gut, and he had reached 
home thereafter in a fever-fit of fear. A fear of the sea, a 
constant haunting thought of the sea, appeared in his talk 
and devotions, and even in his looks when he was silent. 

Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little later my un- 
cle appeared, took a bottle under his arm, put some bread 
in his pocket, and set forth again to his outlook, followed 
this time by Rorie. I heard that the schooner was losing 
ground, but the crew were still fighting every inch with 
hopeless ingenuity and courage; and the news filled my 
mind with blackness. 

A little after sundown the full fury of the gale broke 
forth, such a gale as I have never seen in summer, nor, 
seeing how swiftly it had come, even in winter. Mary and 
I sat in silence, the house quaking overhead, the tempest 
howling without, the fire between us sputtering with rain- 
drops. Our thoughts were far away with the poor fellows 
on the schooner, or my not less unhappy uncle, houseless 
on the promontory; and yet ever and again we were startled 
back to ourselves, when the wind would rise and strike the 
gable like a solid body, or suddenly fall and draw away, so 
that the fire leaped into flame and our hearts bounded in 
our sides. Now the storm in its might would seize and 
shake the four corners of the roof, roaring like Leviathan 
in anger. Anon, in a lull, cold eddies of tempest moved 
shudderingly in the room, lifting the hair upon our heads 
and passing between us as we sat. And again the wind 
would break forth in a chorus of melancholy sounds, hoot- 
ing low in the chimney, wailing with flute-like softness 
round the house. 

It was perhaps eight o’clock when Rorie came in and 
pulled me mysteriously to the door. My uncle, it ap- 


44 


THE MERRY MEM. 


peared, had frightened even his constant comrade; and 
Rorie, uneasy at his extravagance, prayed me to come out 
and share the watch. I hastened to do as I was asked; 
the more readily as, what with fear and horror, and the 
electrical tension of the night, I was myself restless and 
disposed for action. I told Mary to be under no alarm, for 
I should be a safeguard on her father; and wrapping my- 
self warmly in a plaid, I followed Rorie into the open air. 

The night, though we were so little past midsummer, 
was as dark’ as January. Intervals of a groping twilight 
alternated with spells of utter blackness; and it was im- 
possible to trace the reason of these changes in the flying 
horror of the sky. The wind blew the breath out of a 
man’s nostrils; all heaven seemed to thunder overhead like 
one huge sail; and when there fell a momentary lull on 
Aros, we could hear the gusts dismally sweeping in the dis- 
tance. Over all the lowlands of the Ross, the wind must 
have blown as fierce as on the open sea; and God only 
knows the uproar that was raging around the head of Ben 
Kyaw. Sheets of mingled spray and rain were driven in 
our faces. All round the isle of Aros the surf, with an in- 
cessant, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and 
beaches. Now louder in one place, now lower in another, 
like the combinations of orchestral music, the constant 
mass of sound was hardly varied for a moment. And loud 
above all this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful voices 
of the Roost and the intermittent roaring . of the Merry 
Men. At that hour, there flashed into my mind the rea- 
son of the name that they were called. For the noise of 
them seemed almost mirthful, as it out-topped the other 
noises of the night; or if not mirthful, yet instinct with a 
portentous joviality. Nay, and it seemed even human. 
As when savage men have drunk away their reason, and, 
discarding speech, bawl together in their madness by the 
hour; so, to my ears, these deadly breakers shouted by 
Aros in the night. 


THE MERRY MEH. 


45 


Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, Rorie and 
I won every yard of ground with a conscious effort. We 
slipped on the wet sod, we fell together sprawling on the 
rocks. Bruised, drenched, beaten, and breathless, it must 
have taken us near half an hour to get from the house 
down to the Head that overlooks the Roost. There, it 
seemed, was my uncle's favorite observatory. Right in the 
face of it, where the cliff is highest and most sheer, a 
hump of earth, like a parapet, makes a place of shelter 
from the common winds, where a man may sit in quiet 
and see the tide and the mad billows contending at his 
feet. As he might look down from the window of a house 
upon some street disturbance, so, from this post, he looks 
down upon the tumbling of the Merry Men. On such a 
night, of course, he peers upon a world of blackness, where 
the waters wheel and boil, where the waves joust together 
with the noise of an explosion, and the foam towers and 
vanishes in the twinkling of an eye. Never before had I 
seen the Merry Men thus violent. The fury, height and 
transiency of their spoutings was a thing to be seen and not 
recounted. High over our heads on the cliff rose their 
white columns in the darkness; and the same instant, like 
phantoms, they were gone. Sometimes three at a time 
would thus aspire and vanish; sometimes a gust took them, 
and the spray would fall about us, heavy as a wave. And 
yet the spectacle was rather maddening in its levity than 
impressive by its force. Thought was beaten down by the 
confounding uproar; a gleeful vacancy possessed the brains 
of men, a state akin to madness; and I found myself at 
times following the dance of the Merry Men as it were a 
tune upon a jigging instrument. 

I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still some 
yards away in -one of the flying glimpses of twilight that 
checkered the pitch darkness of the night. He was stand- 
ing up behind the parapet, his head thrown back and the 
bottle to his mouth. As he put it down, he saw and recog- 


46 


THE MERRY MEM. 


nized us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his 
head. 

“ Has he been drinking?” shouted I to Rorie. 

“ He will aye be drunk when the wind Maws,” returned 
Rorie, in the same high key, and it was all that I could do 
to hear him. 

“ Then — was he so — in February?” I inquired. 

Rorie' s “ Ay '' was a cause of joy to me. The murder, 
then, had not sprung in cold blood from calculation; it was 
an act of madness no more to be condemned than to be 
pardoned. My uncle was a dangerous madman, if you 
will, but he was not cruel and base as I had feared. Yet 
what a scene for a carouse, what an incredible vice, was 
this that the poor man had chosen! I have always thought 
drunkenness a wild and almost fearful pleasure, rather 
demoniacal than human; but drunkenness, out here in the 
roaring blackness, on the edge of a cliff above that hell of 
waters, the man's head spinning like the Roost, his foot 
tottering on the edge of death, his ear watching for the 
signs of shipwreck, surely that, if it were credible in any 
one, was morally impossible in a man like my uncle, whose 
mind was set upon a damnatory creed and haunted by the 
darkest superstitions. Yet so it was; and, as we reached 
the bight of shelter and could breathe again, I saw the 
man's eyes shining in the night with an unholy glimmer. 

“Eh, Charley, man, it's grand!'' he cried. “See to 
them!'' he continued, dragging me to the edge of the abyss 
from whence arose that deafening clamor and those clouds 
of spray; “see to them dancin', man! Is that no 
wicked?'' 

He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought it 
suited with the scene. 

“They're yowlin' for thon schooner,'' he went on, his 
thin, insane voice clearly audible in the shelter of the bank, 
“an' she's cornin' aye nearer, aye nearer, aye nearer an' 
nearer an' nearer; an' they ken't, the folk kens it, they 


THE MERRY MEN. 


47 


ken weel it's by wi’ them. Charley, lad, they’re a’ drunk 
in yon schooner, a’ dozened wi’ drink. They were a’ 
drunk in the 4 Christ- Anna,’ at the hinder end. There’s 
nane could droon at sea wantin’ the brandy. Hoot awa, 
what do you ken?” with a sudden blast of anger. “ I tell 
ye, it cannae be; they daurnae droon withoot it. Ha’e,” 
holding out the bottle, “ tak’ a sowp.” • 

I was about to refuse, but Rorie touched me as if in 
warning; and indeed I had already thought better of the 
movement. I took the bottle, therefore, and not only 
drank freely myself, but contrived to spill even more as I 
was doing so. It was pure spirit, and almost strangled me 
to swallow. My kinsman did not observe the loss, but, 
once more throwing back his head, drained the remainder 
of the dregs. Then, with a loud laugh, he cast the bottle 
forth among the Merry Men, who seemed to leap up, shout- 
ing to receive it. 

“ Ha’e, bairns!” he cried, “ there’s your han’sel. Ye’ll 
get bonnier nor that, or morning. ” 

Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and not two 
hundred yards away, we heard, at a moment when the 
wind was silent, the clear note of a human voice. Instant- 
ly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, and the 
Roost bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new fury. 
But we had heard the sound, and we knew, with agony, 
that this was the doomed ship now close on ruin, and that 
what we had heard was the voice of her master issuing his 
last command. Crouching together on the edge, we wait- 
ed, straining every sense, for the inevitable end. It was 
long, however, and to us it seemed like ages, ere the 
schooner suddenly appeared for one brief instant, relieved 
against a tower of glimmering foam. I still see her reefed 
mainsail flapping loose, as the boom fell heavily across the 
deck; I still see the black outline of the hull, and still 
think I can distinguish the figure of a man stretched upon 
the tiller. Yet the whole sight we had of her passed 


48 


THE MERRY MEM. 


swifter than lightning; the very wave that disclosed her 
fell burying her forever; the mingled cry of many voices at 
the point of death rose and was quenched in the roaring of 
the Merry Men. And with that the tragedy was at an end. 
The strong ship, with all her gear, and the lamp perhaps 
still burning in her cabin, the lives of so many men, pre- 
cious surely to others, dear, at least, as heaven to them- 
selves, had all, in that one moment, gone down into the 
surging waters. They were gone like a dream. And the 
wind still ran and shouted, and the senseless waters in the 
Roost still leaped and tumbled as before. 

How long we lay there together, we three, speechless and 
motionless, is more than I can tell, but it must have been 
for long. At length, one by one, and almost mechanically, 
we crawled back into the shelter of the bank. As I lay 
against the parapet, wholly wretched and not entirely mas- 
ter of my mind, I could hear my kinsman maundering to 
himself in an altered and melancholy mood. Now he 
would repeat to himself with maudlin iteration, “ Sic a 
fecht as they had — sic a sair fecht as they had, puir lads, 
puir lads!” and anon he would bewail that “ a' the gear 
was as gude's tint, ” because the ship had gone down among 
the Merry Men instead of standing on the shore; and 
throughout, the name — The “ Christ- Anna ” — would come 
and go in his divagations, pronounced with shuddering 
awe. The storm all this time was rapidly abating. In 
half an hour the wind had fallen to a breeze, and the 
change was accompanied or caused by a heavy, cold, and 
plumping rain. I must then have fallen asleep, and when 
I came to myself, drenched, stiff, and unrefreshed, day had 
already broken, gray, wet, discomfortable day; the wind 
blew in faint and shifting capfuls, the tide was out, the 
Roost was at its lowest, and only the strong beating surf 
round all the coasts of Aros remained to witness of the 
furies of the night. 


THE MERRY MEH. 


40 


CHAPTER V. 

A MAH OUT OE THE SEA. 

Rorie set out for the house in search of warmth and 
breakfast; but my uncle was bent upon examining the 
shores of Aros, and I felt it a part of duty to accompany 
him throughout. He was now docile and quiet, but tremulous 
and weak in mind and body; and it was with the eagerness 
of a child that he pursued his exploration. He climbed far 
down upon the rocks; on the beaches, he pursued the re- 
treating breakers. The merest broken plank or rag of 
cordage was a treasure in his eyes to be secured at the peril 
of his life. To see him, with weak and stumbling foot- 
steps, expose himself to the pursuit of the surf, or the 
snares and pitfalls of the weedy rock, kept me in a per- 
petual terror. My ^rm was ready to support him, my 
hand clutched him by the skirt, I helped him to draw Ills 
pitiful discoveries beyond the reach of the returning wave; 
a nurse accompanying a child of seven would have had no 
dilferent experience. 

Yet, weakened as he was by the reaction from his mad- 
ness of the night before, the passions that smoldered in his 
nature were those of a strong man. His terror of the sea, 
although conquered for the moment, was still undiminished; 
had the sea been a lake of living flames, he could not have 
shrunk more panically from its touch; and once, when his 
foot slipped and he plunged to the midleg into a pool of 
water, the shriek that came up out of his soul was like the 
cry of death. He sat still for awhile, panting like a dog, 
after that; but his desire for the spoils of shipwreck tri- 
umphed once more over his fears; once more he tottered 
among the curded foam; once more he crawled upon the 
rocks among the bursting bubbles; once more his whole 


50 


THE MERRY MEM. 


heart seemed to be set on driftwood, fit, if it was fit for 
anything, to throw upon the fire. Pleased as he was with 
what he found, he still incessantly grumbled at his ill- 
fortune. 

“ Aros,” he said, “is no a place for wrecks ava’ — no 
ava’. A* the years I’ve dwalt here, this ane maks the sec- 
ond; and the best o’ the gear clean tint!” 

“ Uncle,” said I, for we were now on a stretch of open 
sand, where there was nothing to divert his mind, “ I saw 
you last night, as I never thought to see you — you were 
drunk. ” 

“ Na, na,” he said, “no as bad as that. I had been 
drinking, though. And to tell ye the God’s truth, it’s a 
thing I cannae mend. There’s nae soberer man than me 
in my ordnar; but when I hear the wind blaw in my lug, 
it’s my belief that I gang gyte. ” 

“You are a religious man,” I replied, “and this is 
sin.” 

“ Ou,” he returned, “ if it wasnae sin, I dinnae ken that 
I would care for’t. Ye see, man, it’s defiance. There’s a 
sair spang o’ the auld sin o’ the war Id in yon sea; it’s an 
unchristian business at the best o’t; an’ whiles when it 
gets up, an’ the wind skreighs — the wind an’ her. are a 
kind of sib, I’m thinkin’ — an’ thae Merry Men, the daft 
callants, blawin’ and lauchin’, and puir souls in the deid 
thraws warstlin’ the leelang nicht wi’ their bit ships — weel, 
it comes ower me like a glamour. I’m a deil, I ken’t. 
But I think naething o’ the puir sailor lads; I’m wi’ the 
sea, I’m just like ane o’ her ain Merry Men.” 

I thought I should touch him in a joint of his harness. 

I turned me toward the sea; the surf was running gayly, 
wave after wave, with their manes blowing behind them, 
riding one after another up the beach, towering, curving, 
falling one upon another on the trampled sand. Without, 
the salt air, the scared gulls, the widespread army of the 
sea-chargers, neighing to each other, as they gathered 


THE MERRY MEN - . 


51 


together to the assault of Aros; and close before us, that 
line on the flat sands that, with all their number and their 
fury, they might never pass. 

“Thus far shalt thou go,” said I, “and no further. " 
And then I quoted as solemnly as I was able a verse that I 
had often before fitted to the chorus of the breakers — 

“ But yet the Lord that is on high, 

Is more of might by far, 

Than noise of many waters is. 

As great sea billows are.” 

“ Ay,” said my kinsman, “ at the hinder end, the Lord 
will triumph; I dinnae misdoobt that. But here on earth, 
even silly men-folk daur Him to His face. It is nae wise; 
I am nae sayin' that it's wise; but it's the pride of the eye, 
and it's the lust o' life, an' it's the wale o' pleesures. ” 

I said no more, for we had now begun to cross a neck of 
land that lay between us and Sandag; and I withheld my 
last appeal to the man's better reason till we should stand 
upon the spot associated with his crime. Nor did he pur- 
sue the subject; but he walked beside me with a firmer 
step. The call that I had made upon his mind acted like 
a stimulant, and I could see that he had forgotten his 
search for. worthless jetsam, in a profound, gloomy, and 
yet stirring train of thought. In three or four minutes we 
had topped the brae and begun to go down upon Sandag. 
The wreck had been roughly handled by the sea; the stem 
had been spun round and dragged a little lower down; and 
perhaps the stern had been forced a little higher, for the 
two parts now lay entirely separate on the beach. When 
we came to the grave I stopped, uncovered my head in the 
thick rain, and, looking my kinsman in the face, addressed 
him. 

“ A man,” said I, “ was in God's providence suffered to 
escape from mortal dangers; he was poor, he was naked. 
Ire was wet, he was weary, he was a stranger; he had every 


52 


THE MERRY MEM. 


claim upon the bowels of your compassion; it may be that 
he was the salt of the earth, holy, helpful, and kind; it 
may be he was a man laden with iniquities to whom death 
was the beginning of torment. I ask you in the sight of 
Heaven: Gordon Darnaway, where is the man for whom 
Christ died?” 

He started visibly at the last words; but there came no 
answer, and his face expressed no feeling but a vague 
alarm. 

“You were my father’s brother,” I continued; “you 
have taught me to count your house as if it were my fa- 
ther’s house; and we were both sinful men walking before 
the Lord among the sins and dangers of this life. It is by 
our evil that God leads us into good; we sin, I dare not say 
by His temptation, but I must say with His consent; and 
to any but the brutish man his sins are the beginning of 
wisdom. God has warned you by this crime; He warns 
you still by the bloody grave between our feet; and if there 
shall follow no repentance, no improvement, no return to 
Him, what can we look for but the following of some 
memorable judgment?” 

Even as I spoke the words, the eyes of my uncle wan- 
dered from my face. A change fell upon his looks that 
can not be described; his features seemed to dwindle in size, 
the color faded from his cheeks, one hand rose waveringly 
and pointed over my shoulder into the distance, and the 
oft-repeated name fell once more from his lips: “ The 
Christ-Anna!” 

I turned; and if I was not appalled to the same degree, 
as I return thanks to Heaven that I had not the cause, I 
was still startled by the sight that met my eyes. The form 
of a man stood upright on the cabin-hutch of the wrecked 
ship; his back was toward us; he appeared to be scanning 
the offing* with shaded eyes, and his figure was relieved to 
its full height, which was plainly very great, against the 
sea and sky. I have said a thousand times that I am not 


THE MERRY ME H. 


53 


superstitious; but at that moment, with my mind running 
upon death and sin, the unexplained appearance of a stran- 
ger on that sea-girt, solitary island filled me with a sur- 
prise that bordered close on terror. It seemed scarce pos- 
sible that any human soul should have come ashore alive in 
such a sea as had raged last night along the coasts of Aros; 
and the only vessel within miles had gone down before our 
eyes among the Merry Men. I was assailed with doubts 
that made suspense unbearable, and, to put the matter to 
the touch at once, stepped forward and hailed the figure 
like a ship. 

He turned about, and I thought he started to behold us. 
At this my courage instantly revived, and I called and 
signed to him to draw near, and he, on his part, dropped 
immediately to the sands, and began slowly to approach, 
with many stops and hesitations. At each repeated mark 
of the man’s uneasiness I grew the more confident myself; 
and I advanced another step, encouraging him as I did so 
with my head and hand. It was plain the castaway had 
heard different accounts of our island hospitality; and in- 
deed, about this time, the people further north had a sorry 
reputation. 

“ Why/’ I said, “ the man is black!” 

And just at that moment, in a voice that I could scarce 
have recognized, my kinsman began swearing and praying 
in a mingled stream. I looked at him; he had fallen on 
his knees, his face was agonized; at each step of the cast- 
away’s the pitch of his voice rose, the volubility of his 
utterance and the fervor of his language redoubled. I call 
it prayer, for it was addressed to God; but surely no such 
ranting incongruities were ever before addressed to the 
Creator by a creature: surely if prayer can be a sin, this 
mad harangue was sinful. I ran to my kinsman, I seized 
him by the shoulders, I dragged him to his feet. • 

“ Silence, man,” said I, “ respect your God in words, if 
not in action. Here, on the very scene of your trails- 


54 


THE MERRY MEN. 


gressions, He sends you an occasion of atonement. For- 
ward and embrace it; welcome like a father yon creature 
who comes trembling to your mercy / 9 

With that, I tried to force him toward the black; but he 
felled me to the ground, burst from my grasp, leaving the 
shoulder of his jacket, and fled up the hillside toward the 
top of Aros like a deer. I staggered to my feet again, 
bruised and somewhat stunned; the negro had paused in 
surprise, perhaps in terror, some half-way between me and 
the wreck; my uncle was already far away, bounding from 
rock to rock; and I thus found myself torn for a time be- 
tween two duties. But I judged, and I pray Heaven that 
I judged rightly, in favor of the poor wretch upon the 
sands; his misfortune was at least not plainly of his own 
creation; it was one, besides, that I could certainly relieve; 
and I had begun by that time to regard my uncle as an in- 
curable and dismal lunatic. I advanced accordingly to- 
ward the black, who now awaited my approach with folded 
arms, like one prepared for either destiny. As I came near- 
er, he reached forth his hand with a great gesture, such as 
I had seen from the pulpit, and spoke to me in something 
of a pulpit voice, but not a word was comprehensible. I 
tried him first in English, then in Gaelic, both in vain; so 
that it was clear we must rely upon the tongue of looks and 
gestures. Thereupon I signed to him to follow me, which 
he did readily and with a grave obeisance like a fallen 
kind; all the while there had come no shade of alteration 
in his face, neither of anxiety while he was still waiting, 
nor of relief now that he was reassured ; if he were a slave, 
as I supposed, I could not but judge he must have fallen 
from some high place in his own country, and fallen as he 
was, I could not but admire his bearing. As we passed 
the grave, I paused and raised my hands and eyes to heaven 
in token of respect and sorrow for the dead; and he, as if 
in answer, bowed low and spread his hands abroad; it was 
a strange motion, but done like a tiling of common cus- 


THE MEKKY MEH. 


55 


tom; and I suppose it was ceremonial in the land from 
which he came. At the same time he pointed to my un- 
cle, whom we could just see perched upon a knoll, and 
touched his head to indicate that he was mad. 

We took the long way round the shore, for I feared to 
excite my uncle if we struck across the island; and as we 
walked, I had time enough to mature the little dramatic 
exhibition by which I hoped to satisfy my doubts. Accord- 
ingly, pausing on a rock, I proceeded to imitate before the 
negro the action of the man whom I had seen the day be- 
fore taking bearings with the compass at Sandag. He un- 
derstood me at once, and, taking the imitation out of my 
hands, showed me where the boat was, pointed out seaward 
as if to indicate the position of the schooner, and then 
down along the edge of the rock with the words, “ Es- 
pirito Santo,” strangely pronounced, but clear enough for 
recognition. I had thus been right in my conjecture; the 
pretended historical inquiry had been but a cloak for treas- 
ure-hunting; the man who had played Dr. Robertson was 
the same as the foreigner who visited Grisapol in spring, 
and now, with many others, lay dead under the Roost of 
Aros: there had their greed brought them, there should 
their bones be tossed for evermore. In the meantime the 
black continued his imitation of the scene, now looking up 
skyward as though watching the approach of the storm; 
now, in the character of a seaman, waving the rest to come 
aboard; now as an officer, running along the rock and en- 
tering the boat; and anon bending over imaginary oars 
with the air of a hurried boatman; but all with the same 
solemnity of manner, so that I was never even moved to 
smile. Lastly, he indicated to me, by a pantomime not to 
be described in words, how he himself had gone up to ex- 
amine the stranded wreck, and, to his grief and indigna- 
tion, had been deserted by his comrades; and thereupon 
folded his arms once more, and stooped his head, like one 
accepting fate. 


56 


THE MERRY MEH. 


The mystery of his presence being thus solved for me, I 
explained to him by means of a sketch the fate of the vessel 
and of all aboard her. He showed no surprise nor sorrow, 
and, with a sudden lifting of his open hand, seemed to 
dismiss his former friends or masters (whichever they had 
been) into God's pleasure. Respect came upon me and 
" grew stronger, the more I observed him; I saw he had a 
powerful mind and a sober and severe character, such as I 
loved to commune with; and before we reached the house 
of Aros I had almost forgotten, and wholly forgiven him, 
his uncanny color. 

To Mary I told all that had passed without suppression, 
though I own my heart failed me; but I did wrong to doubt 
her sense of j ustice. 

“You did the right," she said. “ God's will be done." 
And she set out meat for us at once. 

As soon as I was satisfied, I bade Rorie keep an eye upon 
the castaway, who was still eating, and set forth again my- 
self to find my uncle. I had not gone far before I saw him 
sitting in the same place, upon the very topmost knoll, and 
seemingly in the same attitude as when I had last observed 
him. From that point, as I have said, the most of Aros 
and the neighboring Ross would be spread below him like 
a map; and it was plain that he kept a bright look-out in 
all directions, for my head had scarcely risen above the 
summit of the first ascent before he had leaped to his feet 
and turned as if to face me. I hailed him at once, as well 
as I was able, in the same tones and words as I had often 
used before, when I had come to summon him to dinner. 
He made not so much as a movement in reply. I passed 
on a little further, and again tried parley, with the same 
result. But when I began a second time to advance, his 
insane fears blazed up again, and still in dead silence, but 
with incredible speed, he began to flee from before me 
along the rocky summit of the hill. An hour before, he 
had been dead weary, and I had been comparatively active. 


THE MERRY MEH. 


57 


But now his strength was recruited by the fervor of in- 
sanity, and it would have been vain for me to dream of 
pursuit. Nay, the very attempt, I thought, might have 
inflamed his terrors, and thus increased the miseries of our 
position. And I had nothing left but to turn homeward 
and make my sad report to Mary. 

She heard it, as she had heard the first, with a con- 
cerned composure, and, bidding me lie down and take that 
rest of which I stood so much in need, set forth herself in 
quest of her misguided father. At that age it would have 
been a strange thing that put me from either meat or sleep; 
I slept long and deep; and it was already long past noon 
before I awoke and came down-stairs into the kitchen. 
Mary, Rorie, and the black castaway were seated about the 
fire in silence; and I could see that Mary had been weep- 
ing. There was cause enough, as I soon learned, for tears. 
First she, and then Rorie, had been forth to seek my uncle; 
each in turn had found him perched upon the hill-top, and 
from each in turn he had silently and swiftly fled. Rorie 
had tried to chase him, but in vain; madness lent a new 
vigor to his bounds; he sprung from rock to rock over the 
widest gullies; he scoured like the wind along the hill- 
tops; he doubled and twisted like a hare before the dogs; 
and Rorie at length gave in; and the last that he saw, my 
uncle was seated as before upon the crest of Aros. Even 
during the hottest excitement of the chase, even when the 
fleet-footed servant had come, for a moment, very near to 
capture him, the poor lunatic had uttered not a sound. 
He fled, and he was silent, like a beast; and this silence 
had terrified his pursuer. 

There was something heart-breaking in the situation. 
How to capture the madman, how to feed him in the mean- 
while, and what to do with him when he was captured, 
were the three difficulties that we had to solve. 

“ The black/" said I, “is the cause of this attack. It 
may even be his presence in the house that keeps my uncle 


58 


THE MERRY MEET. 


on the hill. We have done the fair thing; he has been fed 
and warmed under this roof; now I propose that Rorie put 
him across the bay in the coble, and take him through the 
Ross as far as Grisapol. ” 

In this proposal Mary heartily concurred; and bidding 
the black follow us, we all three descended to the pier. 
Certainly, Heaven’s will was declared against Gordon 
Darn away; a thing had happened, never paralleled before 
in Aros; during the storm, the coble had broken loose, 
and, striking on the rough splinters of the pier, now lay in 
four feet of water with one side stove in. Three days of 
work at least would be required to make her float. But I 
was not to be beaten. I led the whole party round to 
where the gut was narrowest, swam to the other side, and 
called to the black to follow me. He signed, with the 
same clearness and quiet as before, that he knew not the 
art; and there was truth apparent in his signals, it would 
have occurred to none of us to doubt his truth; and that 
hope being over, we must all go back even as we came to 
the house of Aros, the negro walking in our midst without 
embarrassment. 

All we could do that day was to make one more attempt 
to communicate with the unhappy madman. Again he 
was visible on his perch; again he fled in silence. But 
food and a great cloak were at least left for his comfort; 
the rain, besides, had cleared away, and the night promised 
to be even warm. We might compose ourselves, we 
thought, until the morrow; rest was the chief requisite, 
that we might be strengthened for unusual exertions; and 
as none cared to talk, we separated at an early hour. 

I lay long awake, planning a campaign for the morrow. 

I was to place the black on the side of Sandag, whence he 
should head my uncle toward the house; Rorie in the west, 
I on the east, were to complete the cordon, as best we 
might. It seemed to me, the more I recalled the config- 
uration of the island, that it should be possible, though 


THE MERRY MEN". 


59 


hard, to force him down upon the low ground along Aros 
Bay; and once there, even with the strength of his mad- 
ness, ultimate escape was hardly to be feared. It was on 
his terror of the black that I relied; for I made sure, how- 
ever he might run, it would not be in the direction of the 
man whom he supposed to have returned from the dead, 
and thus one point of the compass at least would be secure. 

When at length I fell asleep, it was to be awakened 
shortly after by a dream of wrecks, black men, and sub- 
marine adventure; and I found myself so shaken and 
fevered that I arose, descended the stair, and stepped out 
before the house. Within, Rorie and the black were 
asleep together in the kitchen; outside was a wonderful 
clear night of stars, with here and there a cloud still hang- 
ng, last stragglers of the tempest. It was near the top of 
the flood, and the Merry Men were roaring in the windless 
quiet of the night. Never, not even in the height of the 
tempest, had I heard their song with greater awe. Now, 
when the winds were gathered home, when the deep was 
dandling itself back into its summer slumber, and when 
the stars rained their gentle light over land and sea, the 
voice of these tide-breakers was still raised for havoc. 
They seemed, indeed, to be a part of the world's evil and 
the tragic side of life. Nor were their meaningless 
vociferations the only sounds that broke the silence of the 
night. For I could hear, now shrill and thrilling and now 
almost drowned, the note of a human voice that accom- 
panied the uproar of the Roost. I knew it for my kins- 
man's; and a great fear fell upon me of God's judgments, 
and the evil in the world. I went back again into the dark- 
ness of the house as into a place of shelter, and lay long 
upon my bed, pondering these mysteries. 

It was late when I again woke, and I leaped into my 
clothes and hurried to the kitchen. No one was there; 
Rorie and the black had both stealthily departed long be- 
fore; and my heart stood still at the discovery. I could 


60 


THE MEEEY MEN. 


rely on Rorie’s heart, but I placed no trust in his discre- 
tion. If he had thus set out without a word, he was plain- 
ly bent upon some service to my uncle. But what service 
could he hope to render even alone, far less in the com- 
pany of the man in whom my uncle found his fears incar- 
nated? Even if I were not already too late to prevent 
some deadly mischief, it was plain I must delay no longer. 
With the thought I was out of the house; and often as I 
have run on the rough sides of Aros, I never ran as I did 
that fatal morning. I do not believe I put twelve minutes 
to the whole ascent. 

My uncle was gone from his perch. The basket had in- 
deed been torn open and the meat scattered on the turf; 
but, as we found afterward, no mouthful had been tasted; 
and there was not another trace of human existence in that 
wide field of view. Day had already filled the clear 
heavens; the sun already lighted in a rosy bloom upon the 
crest of Ben Kyaw; but all below me the rude knolls of 
Aros and the shield of the sea lay steeped in the clear 
darkling twilight of the dawn. 

“ Rorie!” I cried; and again “ Rorie!” My voice died 
in the silence, but there came no answer back. If there 
were indeed an enterprise afoot to catch my uncle, it was 
plainly not in fleetness of foot, but in dexterity of stalking, 
that the hunters placed their trust. I ran on further, 
keeping the higher spurs, and looking right and left, nor 
did I pause again till I was on the mount above Sandag. I 
could see the wreck, the uncovered belt of sand, the waves 
idly beating, the long ledge of rocks, and on either hand 
the tumbled knolls, bowlders, and gullies of the island. 
But still no human thing. 

At a stride the sunshine fell on Aros, and the shadows 
and colors leaped into being. Not half a moment later, 
below me to the west, sheep began to scatter as in a panic. 
There came a cry. I saw my uncle running. I saw the 
black jump up in hot pursuit; and before I had time to 


THE MERRY MEET. 61 

understand, Rorie also had appeared, calling directions in 
Gaelic as to a dog herding sheep. 

I took to my heels to interfere, and perhaps I had done 
better to have waited where I was, for I was the means of 
cutting off the madman's last escape. There was nothing 
before him from that moment but the grave, the wreck, 
•and the sea in Sandag Bay. And yet Heaven knows that 
what I did was for the best. 

My Uncle Gordon saw in what direction, horrible to him, 
the chase’ was driving him. He doubled, darting to the 
right and left; but high as the fever ran in his veins, the 
black was still the swifter. Turn where he would, he was 
still forestalled, still driven toward the scene of his crime. 
Suddenly he began to shriek aloud, so that the coast re- 
echoed ; and now both I and Rorie were calling on the black 
to stop. But all was vain, for it was written otherwise. 
The pursuer still ran, the chase still sped before him 
screaming; they avoided the grave, and skimmed close past 
the timbers of the wreck; in a breath they had cleared the 
sand; and still my kinsman did not pause, but dashed 
straight into the surf; and the black, now almost within 
reach, still followed swiftly behind him. Rorie and I both 
stopped, for the thing was now beyond the hands of men, 
and these were the decres of God that came to pass before 
our eyes. There was never a sharper ending. On that 
steep beach they were beyond their depth at a bound; 
neither could swim; the black rose once for a moment 
with a throttling cry; but the current had them, racing 
seaward; and if ever they came up again, which God alone 
can tell, it would be ten minutes after, at the far end of 
Aros Roost, where the seabirds hover fishing. 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


i THE PLAIN AND THE STARS. 

The Mill where Will lived with his adopted parents 
stood in a falling valley between pine woods and great 
mountains. Above, hill after hill soared upward until 
they soared out of the depth of the’ hardiest timber, and 
stood naked against the sky. Some way up, a long gray 
village lay like a seam or a rag of vapor on a wooded hill- 
side; and when the wind was favorable, the sound of the 
church bells would drop down, thin and silvery, to Will. 
Below, the valley grew ever steeper and steeper, and at the 
same time widened out on either hand; and from an emi- 
nence beside the mill it was possible to see its whole length 
and away beyond it over a wide plain, where the river 
turned and shone, and moved on from city to city on its 
voyage toward the sea. It chanced that over this valley 
there lay a pass into a neighboring kingdom; so that, quiet 
and rural as it was, the road that ran along beside the river 
was a high thoroughfare between two splendid and power- 
ful societies. All through the summer, traveling-carriages 
came crawling up, or went plunging briskly downward 
past the mill; and as it happened that the other side was 
very much easier of ascent, the path was not much fre- 
quented, except by people going in one direction; and of 
all the carriages that Will saw go by, five-sixths were 
plunging briskly downward and only one-sixth crawling 
up. Much more was this the case with foot-passengers. 
All the light-footed tourists, all the pedlers laden with 

( 62 ) 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


63 


strange wares, were tending downward like the river that 
accompanied their path. Nor was this all; for when Will 
was yet a child a disastrous war arose over a great part of 
the world. The newspapers were full of defeats and vic- 
tories, the earth rang with cavalry hoofs, and often for days 
together and for miles around the coil of battle terrified 
good people from their labors in the field. Of all this, 
nothing was heard for a long time in the valley; but at 
last one of the commanders pushed an army over the pass 
by forced marches, and for three days horse and foot, can- 
non and tumbril, drum and standard, kept pouring down- 
ward past the mill. All day the child stood and watched 
them on their passage — the rhythmical stride, the pale, 
unshaven faces tanned about the eyes, the discolored regi- 
mentals and the tattered flags, filled him with a sense of 
weariness, pity, and wonder; and all night long, after he 
was in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the 
feet trampling, and the great armament sweeping onward 
and downward past the mill. No one in the valley ever 
heard the fate of the expedition, for they lay out of the way 
of gossip in those troublous times; but Will saw one thing 
plainly, that not a man returned. Whither had they all 
gone? Whither went all the 'tourists and pedlers with 
strange wares? whither all the brisk barouches with serv- 
ants in the dicky? whither the water of the stream, ever 
coursing downward and ever renewed from above? Even 
the wind blew oftener down the valley, and carried the dead 
leaves along with it in the fall. It seemed like a great 
conspiracy of things animate and inanimate; they all went 
downward, fleetly and gayly downward, and only he, it 
seemed, remained behind, like a stock upon the wayside. 
It sometimes made him glad when he noticed how the 
fishes kept their heads up stream. They, at least, stood 
faithfully by him, while all else were posting downward to 
the unknown world. 

One evening he asked the miller where the river went. 


64 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


“ It goes down the valley/* answered he, “ and turns a 
power of mills — six score mills, they say, from here to Un- 
terdeck — and it none the wearier after all. And then it 
goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great corn coun- 
try, and runs through a sight of fine cities (so they say) 
where kings live all alone in great palaces, with a sentry 
walking up and down before the door. And it goes under 
bridges with stone men upon them, looking down and 
smiling so curious at the water, and living folks leaning 
their elbows on the wall and looking over too. And then 
it goes on and on, and down through marshes and sands, 
until at last it falls into the sea, where the ships are that 
bring parrots and tobacco from the Indies. Ay, it has a 
long trot before it as it goes singing over our wear, bless its 
heart!** 

“ And what is the sea?’* asked Will. 

“ The sea!** cried the miller. “ Lord help us all, it is 
the greatest thing God made! That is where all the water 
in the world runs down into a great salt lake. There it 
lies, as flat as my hand and as innocent-like as a child; but 
they do say when the wind blows it gets up into water- 
mountains bigger than any of ours, and swallows down 
great ships bigger than otfr mill, and makes such a roaring 
that you can hear it miles away upon the land. There are 
great fish in it five times bigger than a bull, and one old 
serpent as long as our river and as old as all the world, 
with whiskers like a man, and a crown of silver on her 
head. ** 

Will thought he had never heard anything like this, and 
he kept on asking question after question about the world 
that-lay away down the river, with all its perils and mar- 
vels, until the old miller became quite interested himself, 
and at last took him by the hand and led him to the hill- 
top that overlooks the valley and the plain. The sun was 
near setting, and hung low down in a cloudless sky. 
Everything was defined and glorified in golden light. Will 


WILL 0* THE 31 ILL. 


65 


had never seen so great an expanse of country in his life; 
he stood and gazed with all his eyes. He could see the 
cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright curves of 
the river, and far away to where the rim of the plain 
trenched along the shining heavens. An overmastering 
' emotion seized upon the boy, soul and body; his heart beat 
so thickly that he could not breathe; the scene swam be- 
fore his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel round and round, 
and throw off, as it turned, strange shapes which disap- 
peared with the rapidity of thought, and were succeeded by 
others. Will covered his face with his hands, and burst 
into a violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly disap- 
pointed and perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to 
take him up in his arms and carry him home in silence. 

From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and 
longings. Something kept tugging at his heart-strings; 
the running water carried his desires along with it as he 
dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as it ran over 
innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with encouraging words; 
branches beckoned downward; the open road, as it shoul- 
dered round the angles and went turning and vanishing- 
fast and faster down the valley, tortured him with its 
solicitations. He spent long whiles on the eminence, look- 
ing down the river-shed and abroad on the flat lowlands, 
and watched the clouds that traveled forth upon the slug- 
gish wind and trailed their purple shadows on the plain; 
or he would linger by the way-side, and follow the car- 
riages with his eyes as they rattled downward by the river. 
It did not matter what it was; everything that went that 
way, were it cloud or carriage, bird or brown water in the 
stream, he felt his heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of 
longing. 

We are told by men of science that all the ventures of 
mariners on the sea, all that counter-marching of tribes 
and races that confounds old history with its dust and 
rumor, sprung from nothing more abstruse than the laws 


66 


WILL 0* THE MILL. 


of supply and demand, and a certain natural instinct for 
cheap rations. To any one thinking deeply, this will seem 
a dull and pitiful explanation. The tribes that came 
swarming out of the North and East, if they were indeed 
pressed onward from behind by others, were drawn at the 
same time by the magnetic influence of the South and 
West. The fame of other lands had reached them; the 
name of the eternal city rang in their ears; they were not 
colonists, but pilgrims; they traveled toward wine and gold 
and sunshine, but their hearts were set on something 
higher. That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of 
humanity that makes all high achievements and all miser- 
able failure, the same that spread wings with Icarus, the 
same that sent Columbus into the desolate Atlantic, in- 
spired and supported these barbarians on their perilous 
march. There is one legend which profoundly represents 
their spirit, of how a flying party of these wanderers en- 
countered a very old man shod with iron. The old man 
asked them whither they were going; and they answered, 
with one voice: “ To the Eternal City!” He looked upon 
them gravely. “ I have sought it,” he said, “ over the 
most part of the world. Three such pairs as I now carry 
on my feet have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and now 
the fourth is growing slender underneath my steps. And 
all this while I have not found the city. ” And he turned 
and went his own way alone, leaving them astonished. 

And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of 
Wilks feeling for the plain. If he could only go 'far 
enough out there, he felt as if his eyesight would be purged 
and clarified, as if his hearing would grow more delicate, 
and his very breath would come and go with luxury. He 
was transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a 
strange country and was sick for home. Bit by bit, he 
pieced together broken notions of the world below: of the 
river, ever moving and growing until it sailed forth into 
the majestic ocean; of the cities, full of brisk and beauti- 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


67 


ful people, playing fountains, bands of music and marble 
palaces, and lighted up at night from end to end with arti- 
ficial stars of gold; of the great churches, wise universities, 
brave armies, and untold money lying stored in vaults; of 
the high-flying vice that moved in the sunshine, and the 
stealth and swiftness of midnight murder. I have said he 
was sick as if for home: the figure halts. He was like 
some one lying in twilighted, formless pre-existence, and 
stretching out his hands lovingly toward many-colored, 
many-sounding life. It was no wonder he was unhappy, 
he would go and tell the fish: they were made for their 
life, wished for no more than worms and running water, and 
a hole below a falling bank; but he was differently de- 
signed, full of desires and aspirations, itching at the fin- 
gers, lusting with the eyes, whom the whole variegated 
world could not satisfy with aspects. The true life, the 
true bright sunshine, lay far out upon the plain. And oh! 
to see this sunlight once before he died! to move with a 
jocund spirit in a golden land! to hear the trained singers 
and sweet church bells, and see the holiday gardens! 
<tf And oh, fish!” he would cry, “if you would only turn 
your noses down stream, you could swim so easily into the 
fabled waters and see the vast ships passing over your head 
like clouds, and hear the great water-hills making music 
over you all day long!” But the fish kept looking patient- 
ly in their own direction, until Will hardly knew whether 
to laugh or cry. 

Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by Will, like 
something seen in a picture: he had perhaps exchanged 
salutations with a tourist, or caught sight of an old gentle- 
man in a traveling cap at a carriage window; but for the 
most part it had been a mere symbol, which he contem- 
plated from apart and with something of a superstitious 
feeling. A time came at last when this was to be changed. 
The miller, who was a greedy man in liis way, and never 
forewent an opportunity of honest profit, turned the mill- 


68 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


house into a little way-side inn, and, several pieces of good 
fortune falling in opportunely, built stables and got the 
position of post-master on the road. It now became Will's 
duty to wait upon people, as they sat to break their fasts in 
the little arbor at the top of the mill garden ; and you may 
be sure that he kept his ears open, and learned many new 
things about the outside world as he brought the omelette 
or the wine. Nay, he would often get into conversation 
with single guests, and by adroit questions and polite at- 
tention, not only gratify his own curiosity, but win the 
good-will of the travelers. Many complimented the old 
couple on their serving-boy; and a professor was eager to 
take him away with him, and have him properly educated 
in the plain. The miller and his wife were mightily aston- 
ished and even more pleased. They thought it a very good 
thing that they should have opened their inn. “ You 
see," the old man would remark, “ he has a kind of talent 
for a publican; he never would have made anything else!" 
And so life wagged on in the valley, with high satisfaction 
to all concerned but Will. Every carriage that left the 
inn-door seemed to take a part of him away with it; and 
when people jestingly offered him a lift, he could with 
difficulty command his emotion. Night after night he 
would dream that he was awakened by flustered servants, 
and that a splendid equipage waited at the door to carry 
him down into the plain; night after night; until the 
dream, which had seemed all jollity to him at first, began 
to take on a color of gravity, and the nocturnal summons 
and waiting equipage occupied a place in his mind as some- 
thing to be both feared and hoped for. 

One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man 
arrived at sunset to pass the night. He was a contented- 
looking fellow, with a jolly eye, and carried a knapsack. 
While dinner was preparing, he sat in the arbor to read a 
book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will, the 
book was laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer 


WILL 0’ THE MILL. 


Off 

living people to people made of ink and paper. Will/ on 
his part, although he had not been much interested in the 
stranger at first sight, soon began to take a great deal of 
pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and 
good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for his 
character and wisdom. They sat far into the night; and 
about two in the morning Will opened his heart to the 
young man, and told him how he longed to leave the val- 
ley and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities 
of the plain. The young man whistled, and then broke 
into a smile. 

“ My young friend/’ he remarked, “ you are a very cur- 
ious little fellow to be sure, and wish a great many things 
which you will never get. Why, you would feel quite 
ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these fairy 
cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and 
keep breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains. 
And let me tell you, those who go down into the plains are 
a very short while there before they wish themselves 
heartily back again. The air is not so light nor so pure; 
nor is the sun any brighter. As for the beautiful men and 
women, you would see many of them in rags and many of 
them deformed with horrible disorders; and a city is so 
hard a place for people who are poor and sensitive that 
many choose to die by their own hand.” 

“ You must think me very simple,” answered Will. 
“ Although I have never been out of this valley, believe 
me, I have used my eyes. I know how one thing lives on 
another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the eddy to 
catch his fellows; and the shepherd, who makes so pretty a 
picture carrying home the lamb, is only carrying it home 
for dinner. I do not expect to find all things right in your 
cities. That is not what troubles me; it might have been 
that once upon a time; but although I live here always, I 
have asked many questions and^ learned a great deal in 
these last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old 


70 


WILL O' THE HILL. 


fancies. But you would not have me die like a dog and 
not see all that is to be seen, and do all that a man can do, 
let it be good or evil? you would not have me spend all my 
days between this road here and the river, and not so much 
as make a motion to be up and live my lifer — I would 
rather die out of hand,” he cried, 44 than linger on as I 
am doing. ” 

44 Thousands of people,” said the young man, 44 live and 
die like you, and are none the less happy. ” 

'“Ah!” said Will, 44 if there are thousands who would 
like, why should not one of them have my place?” 

It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the 
arbor which lighted up the table and the faces of the 
speakers; and along the arch, the leaves upon the trellis 
stood out illuminated against the night sky, a pattern of 
transparent green upon a dusky purple. The fat young 
man rose, and, taking Will by the arm, led him out under 
fhe open heavens. 

44 Did you ever look at the stars?” he asked, pointing 
upward. 

144 Often and often,” answered Will. 

JC4 And do you know what they are?” 

444 1 have fancied many things.” 

44 They are worlds like ours,” said the young man. 
* 4 Some of them less; many of them a million times great- 
er; and some of the least sparkles that you see are not only 
worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning about each 
other in the midst of space. We do not know what there 
may be in any of them; perhaps the answer to all our diffi- 
culties or the cure of all our sufferings: and yet we can 
never reach them ; not all the skill of the craftiest of men 
can fit out a ship for the nearest of these our neighbors, 
nor would the life of the most aged suffice for such a jour- 
ney. When a great battle has been lost or a dear friend is 
dead, when we are hipped or in high spirits, there they are 
amweariedly shining overhead. We may stand down here. 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


1 


a whole army of us together, and shout until we break our 
hearts, and not a whisper reaches them. AVe may cllml> 
the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them. All we 
can do is to stand down here in the garden and take off our 
hats; the starshine lights upon our heads, and where mine 
is a little bald, I dare say you can see it glisten in the dark- 
ness. The mountain and the mouse. That is like to be^ 
all we shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran- 
Can you apply a parable?” he added', laying his hand upon 
Will’s shoulder. 4 ‘It is not the same thing as a reason^ 
but usually vastly more convincing.” 

Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more 
to heaven. The stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper' 
brilliancy; and as he kept turning his eyes higher and. 
higher, they seemed to increase in multitude under hisr 
gaze. 

“ I see,” he said, turning to the young man. “ We are* 
in a rat-trap.” 

“Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel 
turning in a cage? and another squirrel sitting philosophic- 
ally over his nuts? I needn’t ask you which of them, 
looked more of a fool.” 

THE PARSON’S MARJORY. 

After some years the old people died, both in one winter* 
very carefully tended by their adopted son, and very quietly- 
mourned when they were gone. People who had heard of 
his roving fancies supposed he would hasten to sell the? 
property, and go down the river to push his fortunes. But 
there was never any sign of such an intention on the part 
of Will. On the contrary, he had the inn set on a better 
footing, and hired a couple of servants to assist him in 
carrying it on; and there he settled down, a kind, talkative., 
inscrutable young man, six feet three in his stockings, willi 
an iron constitution and a friendly voice. He soon began. 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


72 

to take rank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it was not 
much to be wondered at from the first, for he was always 
full of notions, and kept calling the plainest common- 
sense in question; but what most raised the report upon 
him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the 
parson's Marjory. 

The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when 
Will would be about thirty; well enough looking, and 
much better educated than any other girl in that part of 
the country, as became her parentage. She held her head 
very high, and had already refused several offers of mar- 
riage with a grand air, which had got her hard names 
among the neighbors. For all that she was a good girl, 
and one that would have made any man well contented. 

Will had never seen much of her; for although the 
church and parsonage were only two miles from his own 
door, he was never known to go there but on Sundays. It 
chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into disrepair, 
and had to be dismantled; and the parson and his daughter 
took lodgings for a month or so, on very much reduced 
terms, at Will's inn. Now, what with the inn, and the 
mill, and the old miller's savings, our friend was a man of 
substance; and besides that, he had a name for good tem- 
per and shrewdness, which make a capital portion in mar- 
riage; and so it was currently gossiped, among their ill- 
wishers, that the parson and his daughter had not chosen 
their temporary lodging with their eyes shut. Will was 
about the last man in the world to be cajoled or frightened 
into marriage. You had only to look into his eyes, limpid 
and still like pools of water, and yet with a sort of clear 
light that seemed to come from within, and you would 
understand at once that here was one who knew his own 
mind, and would stand to it immovably. Marjory herself 
was no weakling by her looks, with strong, steady eyes and 
a resolute and quiet bearing. It might be a question 
whether she was not Will's, match in steadfastness, after 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


73 


all, or which of them would rule the roast in marriage. 
But Marjory had never given it a thought, and accom- 
panied her father with the most unshaken innocence and 
unconcern. 

The season was still so early that Will's customers were 
few and far between; but the lilacs were already flowering, 
and the weather was so mild that the party took dinner 
under the trellis, with the noise of the river in their ears 
and the woods ringing about them with the songs of birds. 
Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these din- 
ners. The parson was rather a dull companion, with a 
habit of dozing at table; but nothing rude or cruel ever fell 
from his lips. And as for the parson's daughter, she suited 
her surroundings with the best grace imaginable; and 
whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will con- 
ceived a great idea of her talents. He could see her face, 
as she leaned forward, against a background of rising pine 
woods; her eyes shone peaceably; the light lay around her 
hair like a kerchief ; something that was hardly a smile rip- 
pled her pale cheeks, and Will could not contain himself 
from gazing on her in an agreeble dismay. She looked, 
even in her quietest moments, so complete in herself, and 
so quick with life dow r n to her finger tips and the very 
skirts of her dress, that the remainder of created things 
became no more than a blot by comparison; and if Will 
glanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees 
looked inanimate and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven 
like dead things, and even the mountain-tops were disen- 
chanted. The whole valley could not compare in looks 
with this one girl. 

Will was always observant in the society of his fellow- 
creatures; but his observation became almost painfully 
eager in the case of Marjory. He listened to all she 
uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for the un- 
spoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere 
speeches found an echo in his heart. He became con- 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


?4 

scious of a soul beautifully poised upon itself, nothing 
doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace. It was not 
possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance. 
The turn of her wrist, the still sound of her voice, the light 
an her eyes, the lines of her body, fell in tune with her 
grave and gentle words, like the accompaniment that sus- 
tains and harmonizes the voice of the singer. Her influ- 
ence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, only to 
he felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her presence re- 
called something of his childhood, and the thought of her 
took its place in his mind beside that of dawn, of running 
water, and of the earliest violets and lilacs. It is the prop- 
erty of things seen for the first time, or for the first time 
safter long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the 
sharp edge of sense and that impression of mystic strange- 
ness which otherwise passes out of life with the coming of 
years; but the sight of a loved face is what renews a man's 
character from the fountain upward. 

One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firg; a 
grave beatitude possessed him from top to toe, and he kept 
smiling to himself and the landscape as he went. % The 
vrfver ran between the stepping-stones with a pretty wim- 
ple; a bird sung loudly in the wood; the hill- tops looked 
immeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time 
to time seemed to contemplate his movements with a benef- 
icent but awful curiosity. His way took him to the emi- 
nence which overlooked the plain; and there he sat down 
upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant thought. 
The plain lay abroad with its cities and silver river; every- 
thing was asleep, except a great eddy of birds which kept 
Hsing and falling and going round and round in the blue 
•jair.. He repeated Marjory's name aloud, and the sound of 
it gratified his ear. He shut his eyes, and her image 
ssprung up before him, quietly luminous and attended with 
good thoughts. The river might run forever; the birds fly 
Iiigher and higher till they touched the stars. He saw it 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


7S 


was empty bustle after all; for here, without stirring afoot,, 
waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, he also had 
attained the better sunlight. 

The next day Will made a sort of declaration across thez 
dinner-table, while the parson was filling his pipe. 

“ Miss Marjory,” he said, “ I never knew any one I 
liked so well as you. I am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of 
man; not from want of heart, but out of strangeness in my 
way of thinking; and people seem far away from me. ’Tis 
as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one 
out but you; I can hear the others talking and laughings 
but you come quite close. May be this is disagreeable to 
you?” he asked. 

Marjory made no answer. 

“ Speak up, girl,” said the parson. 

“ Nay, now,” returned Will, “ I wouldn’t press her, 
parson. I feel tongue-tied myself, who am not used to it:; 
and she’s a woman, and little more than a child, when all 
is said. But for my part, as far as I can understand whafc 
people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call in; 
love. I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for 
I may be wrong; but that is how I believe things are with 
me. And if Miss Marjory should feel any otherwise on her 
part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her head.” 

Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard-- 

“ How is that, parson?” asked Will. 

“ The girl must speak,” replied the parson, laying down 
his pipe. “ Here’s our neighbor who says he loves you, 
Madge. Ho you love him, ay or no?” 

“ I think I do,” said Marjory, faintly. 

“Well, then, that’s all that could be wished!” cried 
Will, heartily. And he took her hand across the table, 
and held it a moment in both of his with great satisfaction. 

“You must marry,” observed the parson, replacing his 
pipe in his mouth. 


76 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


“ Is that the right thing to do, think you?”, demanded 
Will. 

“ It is indispensable/ ' said the parson. 

“ Very well,” replied the wooer. 

Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, 
although a bystander might scarce have found it out. He 
continued to take his meals opposite Marjory, and to talk 
with her and gaze upon her in her father's presence; but 
lie made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way 
changed his conduct toward her from what it had been since 
the beginning. Perhaps the girl was a little disappointed, 
and perhaps not unjustly; and yet if it had been enough to 
be always in the thoughts of another person, and so per- 
vade and alter his whole life, she might have been thor- 
oughly contented. For she was never out of Will's mind 
for an instant. He sat over the, stream, and watched the 
dust of the eddy, and the poised fish, and straining weeds; 
he wandered out alone into the purple even, with all the 
blackbirds piping round him in the wood; he rose early in 
the morning, and saw the sky turn from gray to gold, and 
the light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept 
wondering if he had never seen such things before, or how 
it was that they should look so different now. The sound 
of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among the trees, con- 
founded and charmed his heart. The most enchanting 
thoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind. He 
was so happy that he could not sleep at night, and so rest- 
less that he could hardly sit still out of her company. And 
yet it seemed as if he avoided her rather than sought her 
own. 

One day, as he was coming home from a ramble. Will 
found Marjory in the garden picking flowers, and as he 
came up with her, slackened his pace and continued walking 
by her side. 

“ You like flowers?” he said. 

; 44 Indeed I love them dearly,'' she replied. “ Do you?” 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


77 


44 Why, no,” said he, 44 not so much. They are a very 
small affair, when all is done. I can fancy people caring 
for them greatly, but not doing as you are just now.” 

4 4 How?” she asked, pausing and looking up at him. 

44 Plucking them, ” said he. 4 4 They are a deal better off 
where they are, and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.” 

44 1 wish to have them for my own,” she answered, 44 to 
carry them near my heart, and keep them in my room. 
They tempt me when they grow here; they seem to say, 
4 Come and do something with us;’ but once I have cut 
them and put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look 
at them with quite an easy heart.” 

44 You wish to possess them,” replied Will, 44 in order to 
think no more about them. IPs a bit like killing the goose 
with the golden eggs. IPs a bit like what I wished to do 
when I was a boy. Because I had a fancy for looking out 
over the plain, 1 wished 'to go down there — where I couldn’t 
look out over it any longer. Was not that fine reasoning? 
Dear, dear, if they only thought of it, all the world would 
do like me; and you would let your flowers alone, just as 
I stay up here in the mountains. ” Suddenly he broke off 
sharp. 44 By the Lord!” he cried. And when she asked 
him what was wrong, he turned the question off, and 
walked away into the house with rather a humorous ex- 
pression of face. 

He was silent at table: and after the night had fallen and 
the stars had come out overhead, he walked up and down 
for hours in the courtyard and garden with an uneven pace. 
There was still alight in the window of Marjory’s room: 
one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark blue 
hills and silver starlight. Will’s mind ran a great deal on 
the window; but his thoughts were not very lover-like. 
44 There she is in her room,” he thought, 44 and there are 
the stars overhead: — a blessing upon both!” Both were 
good influences in his life; both soothed and braced him in 
his profound contentment with the world. And what 


78 


WILL 0* THE MILL. 


more should he desire with either; The fat young man and 
his counsels were so present to his mind, that he threw back 
his head, and, putting his hands before his mouth, shouted 
aloud to the populous heavens. Whether from the position 
of his head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed 
to see a momentary shock among the stars, and a diffusion 
of frosty light pass from one to another along the sky. At 
the same iustant, a corner of the blind was lifted up and 
lowered again at once. He laughed a loud ho- ho! “ One 
and another!” thought Will. “ The stars tremble, and 
the blind goes up. Why, before Heaven, what a great 
magician I must be! Now if I were only a fool, should not 
I be in a pretty way?” And he went off to bed, chuckling 
to himself: “ If I were only a fool!” 

The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more 
in the garden, and sought her out. 

“ I have been thinking about getting married,” he began 
abruptly; “and after having turned it all over, I have 
made up my mind it's not worth while. ” 

She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radi- 
ant, kindly appearance would, under the circumstances, 
have disconcerted an angel, and she looked down again 
upon the ground in silence. He could see her tremble. 

“ I hope you don't mind,” he went on, a little taken 
aback. “ You ought not. I have turned it all over, and 
upon my soul there’s nothing in it. We should never be 
one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if I am a wise^ 
man, nothing like so happy. ” 

“ It is unnecessary to go round about with me,” she said. 
“ I very well remember that you refused to commit your- 
self; and now that I see you were mistaken, and in reality 
have never cared for me, I can only feel sad that I have 
been so far misled. ” 

“I ask your pardon,” said Will stoutly; “you do not 
understand my meaning. As to whether I have ever loved 
you or not, I must leave that to others. But for one thing. 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


79 


iny feeling is not changed; and for another, you may make 
it your boast that you have made my whole life and char, 
acter something different from what they were. I mean 
what I say; no less. I do not think getting married is 
worth while. I would rather you went on living with your 
father, so that I could walk over and see you once, or 
may be twice a week, as people go to church, and then we 
should both be all the happier between whiles. That's my 
notion. But I'll marry you if you will," he added. 

“ Do you know that you are insulting me?" she broke 
out. 

“ Not I, Marjory," said he; “ if there is anything in a 
clear conscience, not I. I offer all my heart's best affec- 
tions; you can take it or want it, though I suspect it's be- 
yond either your power or mine to change what has once 
been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you, if you 
like; but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, 
and we had best stay friends. Though I am a quiet man 
I have noticed a heap of things in my life. Trust in me, 
and take things as I propose; or, if you don't like that, say 
the word, and I'll marry you out of hand. " 

There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to 
feel uneasy, began to grow angry in consequence. 

“ It seems you are too proud to say your mind," he said. 
“ Believe me that's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple 
living. Can a man be more downright or honorable to a 
woman than I have been? I have said my say, and given 
you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will 
you take my friendship, as I think best? or have you had 
enough of me for good? Speak out for the dear God's 
sake! You know your father told you a girl should speak 
her mind in these affairs. " 

She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a 
word, walked rapidly through the garden, and disappeared 
into the house, leaving Will in some confusion as to the re- 
sult. He walked up and down the garden, whistling softly 


80 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


to himself. Sometimes he stopped and contemplated the 
sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the 
wear and sat there, looking foolishly in the water. All this 
dubiety and perturbation was so foreign to his nature and 
the life which he had resolutely chosen for himself, that he 
began to regret Marjory’s arrival. ‘‘After all,” he 
thought, “ I was as happy as a man need be. I could come 
down here and watch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I 
was as settled and contented as my old mill.” 

Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and 
quiet; and no sooner were all three at table than she made 
her father a speech, with her eyes fixed upon her plate, but 
showing no other sign of embarrassment or distress. 

“ Father,” she began, “ Mr. Will and I have been talk- 
ing things over. We see that we have each made a mis- 
take about our feelings, and he has agreed, at my request, 
to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more than my 
very good friend, as in the past. You see, there is no 
shadow of a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great 
deal of him in the future, for his visits will always be wel- 
come in our house. Of course, father, you will know best, 
but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr. Will’s house 
for the present. I believe, after what has passed, we should 
hardly be agreeable inmates for some days. ” 

Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from 
t*he first, broke out upon this into an inarticulate noise, and 
raised one hand with an appearance of real dismay, as if he 
were about to interfere and contradict. But she checked 
him at once, looking up at him with a swift glance and an 
angry flush upon her cheek. 

“ You will perhaps have the good grace,” she said, “ to 
let me explain these matters myself.” 

Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expres- 
sion and the ring of her voice. He held his peace, con- 
cluding that there were some things about this girl beyond 
his comprehension, in which he was exactly right. 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


81 


The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove 
that this was no more than a true lovers’ tiff, which would 
pass off before night; and when he was dislodged from that 
position, he went on to argue that where there was no quar- 
rel there could be no call for a separation; for the good 
man liked both his entertainment and his host. It was 
curious to see how the girl managed them, saying little all 
•the time, and that very quietly, and yet twisting them round 
her finger and insensibly leading them wherever she would 
by feminine tact and generalship. It scarcely seemed to 
have been her doing — it seemed as if things had merely so 
fallen out — that she and her father took their departure 
that same afternoon in a farm-cart, and went further down 
the valley, to wait, until their own house was ready for 
them, in another hamlet. But Will had been observing 
closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and resolution. 
When he found himself alone he had a great many curious 
matters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and 
solitary, to begin with. All the interest had gone out of 
his life, and he might look up at the stars as long as he 
pleased, he somehow failed to find support or consolation. 
And then he was in such a turmoil of spirit about Marjory. 
He had been puzzled and irritated at her behavior, and yet 
he could not keep himself from admiring it. He thought 
he recognized a fine, perverse angel in that still soul which 
he had never hitherto suspected; and though he saw it was 
an influence that would fit but ill with his own life of arti- 
ficial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently desir- 
ing to possess it. Like a man who has lived among 
shadows and now meets the sun, he was both pained and 
delighted. 

As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to 
another; now pluming himself on the strength of his de- 
termination, now despising his timid and silly caution. The 
former was, perhaps, the true thought of his heart, and 
represented the regular tenor of the man’s reflections; but 


$2 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


the latter burst forth from time to time with an unruly vio- 
lence, and then he would forget all consideration, and go 
u£> and down his house and garden or walk among the fir- 
woods like one who is beside himself with remorse. To 
equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters was in- 
, tolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it 
to an end. So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his 
best clothes, took a thorn switch in his hand, and set out 
down the valley by the river. As soon as he had taken his 
determination, he had regained at a bound his customary 
peace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright weather and the 
variety of the scene without any admixture of alarm or un- 
pleasant eagerness. It was nearly the same to him how 
the matter turned out. If she accepted him he would have 
to marry her this time, which perhaps was all for the best. 
If she refused him, he would have done his utmost, and 
might follow his own way in the future with an untroubled 
conscience. He hoped, on the whole, she would refuse 
him: and then, again, as he saw the brown roof which shel- 
tered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of the 
stream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, and more 
than half ashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose. 

Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand 
without affectation or delay. 

44 I have been thinking about this marriage,” he began. 

“ So have I,” she answered. 4 4 And I respect you more 
and more for a very wise man. You understood me better 
than I understood myself; and I am now quite certain that 
things are all for the best as they are.” 

44 At the same time— ” ventured Will. 

44 "You must be tired,” she interrupted. 4fc Take a seat 
and let me fetch you a glass of wine. The afternoon is so 
warm; and I wish you not to be displeased with your visit. 
You must come quite often; once a week, if you can spare 
the time; I am always so glad to see my friends.” 

44 Oh, very well,” thought Will to himself. 


44 It ap- 


WILL O’ THE HILL. 


83 


pears I was right after all.” And he paid a very agreeable 
visit, walked home again in capital spirits, and gave himself 
no further concern about the matter. 

For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on 
these terms, seeing each other once or twice a week without 
any word of love between them; and for all that time I be- 
lieve Will was nearly as happy as a man can be. He rather 
stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would 
often walk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back 
again, as if to whet his appetite. Indeed there was one 
corner of the road, whence he could see the church-spire 
wedged into a crevice of the valley between sloping fir- 
woods, with a triangular snatch of plain by way of back- 
ground, which he greatly affected as a place to sit and 
moralize in before returning homeward; and the peasants 
got so much into the habit of finding him there in the twi- 
light that they gave it the name of “ Will o* the MilFs 
Corner. ” 

At the end of the three years Marjory played him a sad 
trick by suddenly marrying somebody else. Will kept his 
countenance bravely, and merely remarked that, for as 
little as he knew of women, he had acted very prudently 
in not marrying her himself three years before. She 
plainly knew very little of her own mind, and, in spite of 
a deceptive manner, was as fickle and flighty as the rest of 
them. He had to congratulate himself on an escape, he 
said, and would take a higher opinion of his own wisdom in 
consequence. But at heart, he was reasonably displeased, 
moped a good deal for a month or two, and fell away in 
flesh, to the astonishment of his serving-lads. 

It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was 
awakened late one night by the sound of a horse galloping 
on the road, followed by precipitate knocking at the inn- 
door. He opened his window and saw a farm-servant, 
mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told 
him to make what haste he could and go along with him; 


84 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


for Marjory was dying, and had sent urgently to fetch him 
to her bedside. Will was no horseman, and made so little 
speed upon the way that the poor young wife was very near 
her end before he arrived. But they had some - minutes* 
talk in private, and he was present and wept very bitterly 
while she breathed her last. 

DEATH. 

Year after year went away into nothing, with great ex- 
plosions and outcries in the cities on the plain: red revolt 
springing up and being suppressed in blood, battle sway- 
ing hither and thither, patient astronomers in observatory 
towers picking out and christening new stars, plays being 
performed in lighted theaters, people being carried into 
hospital on stretchers, and all the usual turmoil and agita- 
tion of men’s lives in crowded centers. Up in Will’s valley 
only the winds and seasons made an epoch; the fish hung 
in the swift stream, the birds circled overhead, the pine- 
tops rustled underneath the stars, the tall hills stood over 
all; and Will went to and fro, minding his wayside inn, 
until the snow began to thicken on his head. His heart 
was young and vigorous; and if his pulses kept a sober 
time, they still beat strong and steady in his wrists. He 
carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe apple; he 
stooped a little, but his step was still firm; and his sinewy 
hands were reached out to all men with a friendly pres- 
sure. His face was covered with those wrinkles which are 
got in open air, and which, rightly looked at, are no more 
than a sort of permanent sunburning; such wrinkles 
heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person like 
Will, with his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only give an- 
other charm by testifying to a simple and easy life. His 
talk was full of wise sayings. He had a taste for other peo- 
ple; and other people had a taste for him. When the val- 
ley was full of tourists in the season, there were merry 


WILL 0* THE MILL. 


85 


nights in Will's arbor; and his views, which seemed whimsi- 
cal to his neighbors, were often enough admired by learned 
people out of towns and colleges. Indeed, he had a very 
noble old age, and grew daily better known; so that his 
fame was heard of in the cities of the plain; and young 
men who had been summer travelers spoke together in 
cafes of Will o' the Mill and his rough philosophy. Many 
and many an invitation, you may be sure, he had; but 
nothing could tempt him from his upland valley. He 
would shake his head and smile over his tobacco-pipe with 
a deal of meaning. 4 4 You come too late," he would an- 
swer. 44 1 am a dead man now: I have lived and died al- 
ready. Fifty years ago you would have brought my heart 
into my mouth; and now you do not even tempt me. But 
that is the object of long living, that man should cease to 
care about life." And again: 44 There is only one differ- 
ence between a long life and a good dinner; that, in the 
dinner, the sweets come last. 7 ' Or once more: 44 When I 
was a boy, I was a bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether it 
was myself or the world that was curious and worth 
looking into. Now, I know it is myself, and stick to 
that." 

He never showed any symptoms of frailty, but kept 
stalwart and firm to the last; but they say he grew less 
talkative toward the end, and would listen to other people 
by the hour in an amused and sympathetic silence. Only, 
when he did speak, it was more to the point and more 
charged with old experience. He drank a bottle of wine 
gladly; above all, at sunset on the hill-top or quite late at 
night under the' stars in the arbor. The sight of some- 
thing attractive and unattainable seasoned his enjoyment, 
he would say; and he professed he had lived long enough 
to admire a candle all the more when he could compare it 
with a planet. 

One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed, 
in such uneasiness of body and mind that he arose and 


86 


WILL 0* THE MILL. 


dressed himself and went out to meditate in the arbor. It 
was pitch dark, without a star; the river was swollen, and 
the wet woods and meadows loaded the air with perfume. 
It had thundered during the day, and it promised more 
thunder for the morrow. A murky, stifling night for a 
man of seventy-two! Whether it was the weather or the 
wakefulness, or some little touch of fever in his old limbs. 
Will's mind was besieged by tumultuous and crying mem- 
ories. His boyhood, the night with the fat young man, 
the death of his adopted parents, the summer days with 
Marjory, and many of those small circumstances, which 
seem nothing to another, and are yet the very gist of a 
man's own life to himself — things seen, words heard, looks 
misconstrued — arose from their forgotten corners and 
usurped his attention. The dead themselves were with 
him, not merely taking part in this thin show of memory 
that defiled before his brain, but revisiting his bodily senses 
as they do in profound and vivid dreams. The fat young 
man leaned his elbows on the table opposite; Marjory 
came and went with an apronful of flowers between the 
garden and the arbor; he could hear the old parson knock- 
ing out his pipe or blowing his resonant nose. The tide of 
his consciousness ebbed and flowed; he was sometimes half- 
asleep and drowned in his recollections of the past; and 
sometimes he was broad awake, wondering at himself. 
But about the middle of the night he was startled by the 
voice of the dead miller calling to him out of the house as 
he used to do on the arrival of custom. The hallucination 
was so perfect that Will sprung from his seat and stood 
listening for the summons to be repeated; and as he list- 
ened he became conscious of another noise besides the brawl- 
ing of the river and the ringing in his feverish ears. It 
was like the stir of the horses and the creaking of harness, 
as though a carriage with an impatient team had been 
brought up upon the road before the court-yard gate. At 
such an hour, upon this rough and dangerous pass, the 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


87 


supposition was no better than absurd; and Will dismissed 
it from his mind, and resumed his seat upon the arbor 
chair; and sleep closed over him again like running water. 
He was once again awakened by the dead millers call, 
thinner and more spectral than before; and once again he 
heard the noise of an equipage upon the road. And so 
thrice and four times, the same dream, or the same fancy, 
presented itself to his senses; until at length, smiling to 
himself as when one humors a nervous child, he proceeded 
toward the gate to set his uncertainty at rest. 

From the arbor to the gate was no great distance, and 
yet it took Will some time; it seemed as if the dead thick- 
ened around him in the court, and crossed his path at 
every step. For, first, he was suddenly surprised by an 
overpowering sweetness of heliotropes; it was as if his gar- 
den had been planted with this flower from end to end, and 
the hot, damp night had drawn forth all their perfumes in 
a breadth. How the heliotrope had been Marjory’s favorite 
flower, and since her death not one of them had ever been 
planted in Will’s ground. 

“ I must be going crazy,” he thought. “ Poor Marjory 
and her heliotropes!” 

And with that he raised his eyes toward the window that 
had once been hers If he had been bewildered before, he 
was now almost terrified; for there was a light in the room; 
the window was an orange oblong as of yore; and the cor- 
ner of the blind was lifted and let fall as on the night when 
he stood and shouted to the stars in his perplexity. The 
illusion only endured an instant; but it left him somewhat 
unmanned, rubbing his eyes and staring at the outline of 
the house and the black night behind it. While he thus 
stood, and it seemed as if he must have stood there quite a 
long time, there came a renewal of the noises on the road : 
and he turned in time to meet a stranger, who was advanc- 
ing to meet him across the court. There was something 
like the outline of a great carriage discernible on the road 


88 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


behind the stranger, and, above that, a few black pine- 
tops, like so many plumes. 

“ Master Will?” asked the new-comer, in brief military 
fashion. 

“ That same, sir," answered Will. “ Can I do anything 
to serve you?” 

“I have heard you much spoken of, Master Will,” re- 
turned the other; “ much spoken of, and well. And 
though I have both hands full of business, I wish to drink 
a bottle of wine with you in your arbor. Before I go, I 
shall introduce myself.” 

Will led the way to the trellis, and got a lamp lighted 
and a bottle uncorked. He was not altogether unused to 
such complimentary interviews, and hoped little enough 
from this one, being schooled by many disappointments. 
A sort of cloud had settled on his wits and prevented him 
from remembering the strangeness of the hour. He moved 
like a person iu his sleep; and it seemed as if the lamp 
caught fire and the bottle came uncorked with the facility 
of ‘thought. Still, he had some curiosity about the appear- 
ance of his visitor, and tried in vain to turn the light into 
his face; either he handled the lamp clumsily, or there was 
a dimness over his eyes; but he could make out little more 
than a shadow at table with him. He stared and stared at 
this shadow, as he wiped out the glasses, and began to feel 
cold and strange about the heart. The silence weighed 
upon him, for he could hear nothing now, not even the 
river, but the drumming of his own arteries in his ears. 

“ Here's to you,” said the stranger, roughly. 

“Here is my service, sir,” replied Will, sipping his 
wine, which somehow tasted oddly. 

“ I understand you are a very positive fellow," pursued 
the stranger. 

Will made answer with a smile of some satisfaction and 
a little nod. 

“ So am I,” continued the other; “ and it is the delight 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


89 


of my heart to tramp on people's corns. I will have no- 
body positive but myself; not one. I have crossed the 
whims, in my time, of kings and generals and great artists. 
And what would you say," he went on, “ if I had come up 
here on purpose to cross yours?" 

Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp rejoinder; but 
the politeness of an old inn-keeper prevailed; and he held 
his peace and made answer with a civil gesture of the hand. 

4,4 I have," said the stranger. 44 And if I did not hold 
you in a particular esteem, I should make no words about 
the matter. It appears you pride yourself on staying 
where you are. You mean to stick by your inn. Now I 
mean you shall come for a turn with me in my barouche; 
and before this bottle's empty, so you shall." 

44 That would be an odd thing, to be sure," replied Will, 
with a chuckle. 44 Why, sir, I have grown here like an 
old oak-tree; the devil himself could hardly root me up; 
and for all I perceive you are a very entertaining old gentle- 
man, I would wager you another bottle you lose your pains 
with me." 

The dimness of Will's eyesight had been increasing all 
this while; but he was somehow conscious of a sharp and 
chilling scrutiny which irrigated and yet overmastered him. 

“ You need not think," he broke out suddenly, in an ex- 
plosive, febrile manner that startled and alarmed himself, 
64 that I am a stay-at-home, because I fear anything under 
God. God knows I am tired enough of it all; and when 
the time comes for a longer journey than ever you dream 
of, I reckon I shall find myself prepared." 

The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it away from 
him. He looked down for a little, and then, leaning, over 
the table, tapped Will three times upon the forearm with a 
single finger. 44 The time has come!" he said, solemnly. 

An ugly thrill spread from the spot he touched. The 
tones of his voice were dull and startling, and echoed 
strangely in Will's heart. 


90 


WILL O' THE MILL. 


“ I beg your pardon,” he said, with some discomposure. 
“ What do you mean?” 

“ Look at me, and you will find your eyesight swim. 
Raise your hand; it is dead-heavy. This is your last bottle 
of wine, Master Will, and your last night upon the earth.” 

“ You are a doctor?” quavered Will. 

“ The best that ever was,” replied the other; “ for I 
cure both mind and body with the same prescription. I 
take away all pain and I forgive all sins; and where my 
patients have gone wrong in life, I smooth out all compli- 
cations and set them free again upon their feet.” 

“ I have no need of you,” said Will. 

“ A time comes for all men, Master Will,” replied the 
doctor, “ when the helm is taken out of their hands. For 
you, because you were prudent and quiet, it has been long 
of coming, and you have had long to discipline yourself for 
its reception. You have seen what is to be seen about your 
mill; you have sat close all your days like a hare in its 
form; but now that is at an end; and,” added the doctor, 
getting on his feet, “you must arise and come with 
me. ” 

“ You are a strange physician*,” said Will, looking stead- 
fastly upon his guest. 

“lama natural law,” he replied, “ and people call me 
Death. ” 

“ Why did you not tell me so at first?” cried Will. “ I 
have been waiting for you these many years. Give me your 
hand, and welcome.” 

“ Lean upon my arm,” said the stranger, “ for already 
your strength abates. Lean on me heavily as you need; 
for though I am old, I am very strong. It is but three 
steps to my carriage, and there all. your trouble ends. 
Why, Will,” he added, “ I have been yearning for you as 
if you were my own son; and of all the men that ever I 
came for in my long days, I have come for you most 


WILL O’ THE MILL. 


91 


gladly. I am caustic, and sometimes offend people at first 
sight; but I am a good friend at heart to such as you. ” 
i( Since Marjory was taken / 9 returned Will, “ I declare 
before God you were the only friend I had to look for.” 

So the pair went arm-in-arm across the court-yard. 

One of the servants awoke about this time and heard the 
noise of horses pawing before he dropped asleep again; all 
down the valley that night there was a rushing as of a 
smooth and steady wind descending toward the plain; and 
when the world rose next morning, sure enough Will o’ 
the Mill had gone at last upon his travels. 


MARKHEIM. 


“ Yes,” said the dealer, “ our windfalls are of various 
kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a 
dividend on my superiour knowledge. Some are dis- 
honest/ 9 and here he held up the candle, so that the light 
fell strongly on his visitor, “ and in that case/’ he con- 
tinued, “ I profit by my virtue.” 

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, 
and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled 
shine and darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, 
and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked pain- 
fully and looked aside. 

The dealer chuckled. “ You come to me on Christmas- 
day,” he resumed, “ when you know that I am alone in 
my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refus- 
ing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you 
will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be 
balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a 
kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. 
I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward ques- 
tions; but when a customer can not look me in the eye, he 
has to pay for it.” The dealer once more chuckled; and 
then, changing to his usual business voice, though still 
with a note of irony, “ You can give, as usual, a clear ac- 
count of how you came into the possession of the object? ” 
he continued. “ Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarka- 
ble collector, sir!” 

And the little, pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost 

( 92 ) 


MARKHEIM. 


93 


on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and 
nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim 
returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of 
horror. 

“ This time,” said he, “ you are in error. I have not 
come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of ; 
my uncle's cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it 
still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, and 
should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand 
to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas-present for 
a lady/' he continued, waxing more fluent as. he struck 
into the speech he had prepared; “ and certainly I owe 
you every excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a 
matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must 
produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very 
well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected. '* 

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed 
to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of 
many clocks among the curious lumber of the shop, and 
the faint rushing of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled 
up the interval of silence. 

“ Well, sir," said the dealer, “ be it so. You are an old 
customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the chance 
of a good marriage, far be it from me to be an obstacle. 
Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he went on, “ this 
hand-glass — fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a 
good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the inter- 
ests of my customer, who was just like yourself, my dear 
sir, the nephew and sole heir of a remarkable collector." 

The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting- 
voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; and, 
as he had done so, a shock had passed through Markheim, 
a start both of hand, and foot, a sudden leap of many 
tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it 
came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the 
hand that now received the glass. 


94 


MARKHEIM. 


“ A glass / 9 he said, hoarsely, and then paused, and re- 
peated it more clearly. “ A glass? For Christmas? 
Surely not?” 

44 And why not?” cried the dealer. “ Why not a glass?” 

Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable ex- 
pression. “ You ask me why not?” he said. “ Why, look 
here — look in it — look at yourself! Do you like to see it? 
No! nor I — nor any man.” 

The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so 
suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, per- 
ceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. 
“ Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored,” 
said he. 

“I ask you,” said Markheim, “for a Christmas-present, 
and you give me this — this damned reminder of years, and 
sins and follies — this hand-conscience! Did you mean it? 
Had you a thought in your mind? Tell me. It will be 
better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I 
hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable 
man?” 

The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very 
odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing; there was 
something in his face like an eager sparkle of hope, but 
nothing of mirth. 

“ W r hat are you driving at?” the dealer asked. 

“ Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. “ Not 
charitable; not pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbe- 
loved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is that all? 
Dear God, man, is that all?” 

“ I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with some 
sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle. “ But 
I see this is a love match of yours, and you have been 
drinking the lady's health.” 

“ Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. 
“ Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that.” 

“ I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the 


MARKHEIM. 95 

time, nor have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. 
Will you take the glass ?" 

“Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It is 
very pleasant to stand here talking; and life is so short and 
insecure that I would not hurry away from any pleasure — 
no, not even from so mild a one as this. We should rather 
cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a cliff's 
edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it — a cliff 
a mile high — high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of 
every feature of humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleas- 
antly. Let us talk of each other; why should we wear this 
mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, we might be- 
come friends?" 

“ I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. 
“ Either make your purchase, or walk out of my shop." 

“ True, true," said Markheim. “ Enough fooling. To 
business. Show me something else. " 

The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the 
glass upon the shelf, his thin blonde hair falling over his 
eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little nearer, with 
one hand in the pocket of his great-coat; he drew himself 
up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different 
emotions were depicted together on his face — terror, hor- 
ror, and resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and 
through a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked 
out. 

“ This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer; and 
then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from be- 
hind upon his victim. The long, skewer-like dagger flashed 
and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, striking his 
temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a 
heap. 

Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some 
stately and slow as was becoming to their great age; others 
garrulous and hurried. All these told out the seconds in 
an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the passage of a 


96 


MARKHEIM. 


lad’s feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon 
these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the con- 
sciousness of his surroundings. He looked about him 
awfully. The candle stood on the counter, its flame 
solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that inconsidera- 
ble movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless 
bustle and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nod- 
ding, the gross blots of darkness swelling and dwindling as 
with respiration, the faces of the portraits and the china 
gods changing and wavering like images in water. The 
inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of 
shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. 

From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes re- 
turned to the body of his victim, where it lay both humped 
and sprawling, incredibly small and strangely meaner than 
in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in that ungainly 
attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim 
had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as 
he gazed, this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood be- 
gan to find eloquent voices. There it must lie; there was 
none to work the cunning hinges or direct the miracle of 
locomotion — there it must lie till it was found. Found! 
ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry 
that would ring over England, and fill the world with the 
echoes of pursuit. Ay, dead or not, this was still the 
enemy. “ Time was that when the brains were out/’ he 
thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, 
now that the deed was accomplished — time, which had 
closed for the victim, had become instant and momentous 
for the slayer. 

The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and 
then another, with every variety of pace and voice — one 
deep as the bell 'from a cathedral turret, another ringing 
on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz — the clocks began 
to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. 

The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb 


MARKHEIM. 


97 


chamber staggered him. He began to bestir himself, go- 
ing to and fro with the candle, beleaguered by moving 
shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. In 
many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from 
Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and re- 
peated, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes met and 
detected him; and the sound of his own steps, lightly as 
they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And still as he 
continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him, with a 
sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. 
He should have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have 
prepared an alibi; he should not have used a knife; he 
should have been more cautious, and only bound and 
gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have 
been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have 
done all things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, inces- 
sant toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, 
to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the 
irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, 
brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, 
filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the 
hand of the constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and 
his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in 
galloping defile, the dock, the prison, the gallows, and the 
black coffin. 

Terror of the people in the street sat down before his 
mind like a besieging army. It was impossible, he 
thought, but that some rumor of the struggle must have 
reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; and now, 
in all the neighboring houses, he divined them sitting mo- 
tionless and with uplifted ear — solitary people, condemned 
to spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, 
and now startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; 
happy family parties, struck into silence round the table, 
the mother still with raised finger: every degree and age 
and humor, but all, by their own hearths, prying and 

4 


98 


MAHKHEIM. 


hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. 
Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; 
the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like 
a bell; and alarmed by the bigness of the ticking, he was 
tempted to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift 
transition of his terrors, the very silence of the place ap- 
peared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze 
the passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle 
aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with 
elaborate bravado, the movements of a busy man at ease in 
his own house. 

But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, 
while one portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, 
another trembled on the brink of lunacy. One hallucina- 
tion in particular took a strong hold on his credulity. The 
neighbor hearkening with white face beside his window* 
the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the pave- 
ment — these could at worst suspect, they could not know; 
through the brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds 
could penetrate. But here, within the house, was he alone? 
He knew he was; he had watched the servant set forth 
sweethearting, in her poor best, “ out for the day ” writ- 
ten in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of 
course; and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he 
could surely hear a stir of delicate footing — he was surely 
conscious, inexplicably conscious of some presence. Ay, 
surely; to every room and corner of the house his imagina- 
tion followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet 
had eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself ; 
and yet again behold the image of the dead dealer, rein- 
spired with cunning and hatred. 

At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the 
open door which still seemed to repell his eyes. The house 
was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the day blind with 
fog; and the light that filtered down to the ground story 
was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold 


MARKHEIM. 


99 


of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful bright- 
ness, did there not hang wavering a shadow? 

Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentle- 
man began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, accom- 
panying his blows with shouts and railleries in which the 
dealer was continually called upon by name. Markheim, 
smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay 
quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these 
blows and shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; 
and his name, which would once have caught his notice 
above the howling of a storm, had become an empty 
sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from 
his knocking and departed. 

Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be 
done, to get forth from this accusing neighborhood, to 
plunge into a bath of London multitudes, and to reach, 
on the other side of day, that haven of safety and apparent 
innocence — his bed. One visitor had come: at any mo- 
ment another might follow and be more obstinate. To 
have done the deed, and yet not to reap the profit, would 
be too abhorrent a failure. The money, that was now 
Markheim 's concern; and as a means to that, the keys. 

He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the 
shadow was still lingering and shivering; and with no con- 
scious repugnance of the mind, yet with a tremor of the 
belly, he drew near the body of his victim. The human 
character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed 
with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on 
the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. Although so 
dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might 
have more significance to the touch. He took the body by 
the shoulders, and turned it on its back. It was strangely 
light and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been 
broken, fell into the oddest postures. The face was robbed 
of all expression; but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly 
smeared with blood about one temple. That was, for 


100 


MAKE HEIM. 


Markheim, the one displeasing circumstance. It carried 
him back, upon the instant, to a certain fair day in a fish- 
ers 7 village: a gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the 
street, the. blare of brasses, the booming of drums, the 
nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro, 
buried over head in the crowd and divided between interest 
and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of con- 
course, he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, 
dismally designed, garishly colored: Brownrigg with her 
apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest; 
Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides of 
famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illusion; he 
was once again that little boy; he was looking once again, 
and with the same sense of physical revolt, at these vile 
pictures; he was still stunned by the thumping of the 
drums. A bar of that day's music returned upon his 
memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over 
him, a breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, 
which he must instantly resist and conquer. 

He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from 
these considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead 
face, bending his mind to realize the nature and greatness 
of his crime. So little awhile ago that face had moved 
with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth had 
spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable 
energies; and now, and by his act, that piece of life had 
been arrested, as the horologist, with interjected finger, 
arrests the beating of the clock. So he reasoned in vain;' 
he could rise to no more remorseful consciousness; the 
same heart which had shuddered before the painted effigies 
of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt 
a gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with 
all those faculties that can make the world a garden of en- 
chantment, one who had never lived and who was now 
dead. But of penitence, no, with a tremor. 

With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations. 


MARKHEIM. 


101 


he found the keys and advanced toward the open door of 
the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain smartly; and the 
sound of the shower upon the roof had banished silence. 
Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house were 
haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and 
mingled with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Mark- 
heim approached the door, he seemed to hear, in answer to 
his own cautious tread, the steps of another foot withdraw- 
ing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated loosely on 
the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon 
his muscles, and drew back the door. 

The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare- 
floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armor posted, hal- 
bert in hand, upon the landing; and on the dark wood- 
carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the yellow 
panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the 
rain through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it 
began to be distinguished into many different sounds. 
Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regiments marching in 
the distance, the chink of money in the counting, and the 
creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to mingle 
with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gush- 
ing of the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not 
alone grew upon him to the verge of madness.. On every 
side he was haunted and begirt by presences. He heard 
them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he 
heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began 
with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly be- 
fore him and followed stealthily behind. If he were but 
deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul! 
And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh attention,, 
he blessed himself for that unresisting sense which held the 
outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His 
head turned continually on his neck; his eyes, which 
seemed starting from their orbits, scouted on every side, 
and on every side were half-rewarded as with the tail of 


102 


MARKHEIM. 


something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps 
to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies.. 

On that first story, the doors stood ajar, three of them 
like three ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of 
cannon. He could never again, he felt, be sufficiently im- 
mured and fortified from men's observing eyes; he longed 
to be home, girt in by walls, buried among bedclothes, and 
invisible to all but God. And at that thought he wondered 
a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear 
they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was 
not so, at least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, 
lest, in their callous and immutable procedure, they should 
preserve some damning evidence of his crime. He feared 
tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, some 
scission in the continuity of man's experience, some willful 
illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending 
on the rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what 
if nature, as the defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board, 
should break the mold of their succession? The like had 
befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when the winter 
changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall 
Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and 
reveal his doings like those of bees in a glass hive; the 
stout planks might yield under his foot like quicksands and 
detain him in their clutch; ay, and there were soberer acci- 
dents that might destroy him: if, for instance, the house 
should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim; 
or the house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen 
invade him from all sides. These things he feared ; and, 
in a sense, these things might be called the hands of God 
reached forth against sin. But about God himself he was 
at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his 
excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among 
men, that he felt sure of justice. 

When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut 
the door behind him, he was aware of a respite from 


MARKHEIir. 


103 . 


alarms. The room was quite dismantled, uncarpeted be- 
sides, and strewn with packing cases and incongruous fur- 
niture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld him- 
self at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many 
pictures, framed and unframed, standing with their faces 
to the wall; a fine Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of mar- 
quetry, and a great old bed, with tapestry hangings. The 
windows opened to the floor; but by great good fortune the 
lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this con- 
cealed him from the neighbors. Here, then, Markheim 
drew in a packing case before the cabinet, and began to 
search among the keys. It was a long business, for there 
were many; and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, 
there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on the 
wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. 
With the tail of his eye he saw the door — even glanced at it 
from time to time directly, like a besieged commander 
pleased to verify the good estate of his defenses. IJut i* 1 
truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the street 
sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other 
side, the notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a 
hymn, and the voices of many children took up the air and 
words. How stately, how comfortable was the melody! 
How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it 
smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was 
thronged with answerable ideas and images; church-going 
children and the pealing of the high organ; children afield, 
bathers by the brook-side, ramblers on the brambly com- 
mon, kite-flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; 
and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to 
church, and the somnolence of summer Sundays, and the 
high genteel voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to 
recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim let- 
tering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. 

And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was 
startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a burst- 


104 


MARKHEIM. 


ing gush of blood, went over him, and then he stood trans- 
fixed and thrilling. A step mounted the stair slowly and 
steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, and 
the lock clicked, and the door opened. 

Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew 
not, whether the dead man walking, or the official minis- 
ters of human justice, or some chance witness blindly stum- 
bling in to consign him to the gallows. But when a face 
was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, 
looked at him, nodded and smiled as* if in friendly recogni- 
tion, and then withdrew again, and the door closed behind 
it, his fear broke loose from his control in a hoarse cry. 
At the sound of this the visitant returned. 

“ Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with that 
he entered the room and closed the door behind him. 

Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. 
Perhaps there was a film upon his sight, but the outlines 
of thg new-comer seemed to change and waver like those of 
the idols in the wavering candle-light of the shop; and at 
times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought 
he bore a likeness to himself; and always, like a lump of 
living terror, there lay in his bosom the conviction that 
this thing was not of the earth and not of God. 

And yet the creature had a strange air of the common- 
place, as he stood looking on Markheim with a smile; and 
when he added: “You are looking for the money, I be- 
lieve?” it was in the tones of everyday politeness. 

Markheim made no answer. 

“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the 
maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will 
soon be here. . If Mr. Markheim be found in this house, I 
need not describe to him the consequences.” 

“ You know me?” cried the murderer. 

The visitor smiled. “ You have long been a favorite of 
mine,” he said; “ and I have long observed and often 
sought to help you. ” 


MARKHEIM. 


105 


“ What are you?” cried Markheim: “ the devil?” 

“ What I may be,” returned the other, “ can not affect 
the service I propose to render you. ” 

“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by 
you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me yet; 
thank God, you do not know me!” 

“ I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind 
severity or rather firmness. “ I know you to the soul. ” 

“Know me!” cried Markheim. “ Who can do so? My 
life is but a travesty and slander on myself. I have lived 
to belie my nature. All men do; all men are better than 
this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see 
each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have 
seized and muffled in a cloak. If they had their own con- 
trol — if you could see their faces, they would be altogether 
different, they would shine out for heroes and saints! I 
am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse 
is known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could 
disclose myself.” 

“ To me?” inquired the visitant. 

“ To you before all,” returned the murderer. “ I sup- 
posed you were intelligent. I thought — since you exist — 
you would prove a reader of the heart. And yet you would 
propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it; my acts? 
I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants 
have dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my 
mother — the giants of circumstance. And you would 
judge me by my acts! But can you not look within? Can 
you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you 
not see within me the clear writing of conscience, never 
blurred by any willful sophistry, although too often disre- 
garded? Can you not read me for a thing that surely 
must be common as humanity — the unwilling sinner?” 

“ All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the reply, 
“ but it regards me not. These points of consistency are 
beyond my province, and I care not in the least by what 


106 


MARKHEIM. 


compulsion you may have been dragged away, so as you are 
but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the 
servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the 
pictures on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving 
nearer; and remember, it is as if the gallows itself was 
striding toward you through the Christmas streets! Shall 
I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to 
find the money?” 

“ For what price?* * asked Markheim. 

“ I offer you the service for a Christmas gift/* returned 
the other. 

Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of 
bitter triumph. “ No/* said he, “ I will take nothing at 
your hands; if I were dying of thirst, and it was your hand 
that put the pitcher to my lips, I should find the courage to 
refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing to com- 
mit myself to evil. ** 

“ I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,** ob- 
served the visitant. 

“ Because you disbelieve their efficacy!** Markheim cried. 

“ I do not say so/* returned the other; “ but I look on 
these things from a different side, and when the life is done 
my interest falls. The man has lived to serve me, to spread 
black looks under color of religion, or to sow tares in the 
wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak compliance with 
desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he 
can add but one act of service — to repent, to die smiling, 
and thus to build up in confidence and hope the more tim- 
orous of my surviving followers. I am not so hard a mas- 
ter. Try me. Accept my help. Please yourself in life as 
you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread 
your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall 
and the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater 
comfort, that you will find it even easy to compound your 
quarrel with your conscience, and to make a truckling peace 
with God. I came but now from such a deathbed, and the 


MARKHEIM. 


10 r 

room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the man’s 
last words: and when I looked into that face, which had 
been set as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with 
hope.” 

“ And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?” asked 
Markheim. “ Do you think I have no more generous 
aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, and, at last, sneak 
into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, then, 
your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me 
with red hands that you presume such baseness? and is 
this crime of murder indeed so impious as to dry up the 
very springs of good?” 

“ Murder is to me no special category,” replied the 
other. “ All sins are murder, even as all life is w r ar. I 
behold your race, like starving mariners on a raft, plucking 
crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding on each 
other’s lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their 
acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and 
to my eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with 
such taking graces on a question of a ball, drips no less 
visibly with human gore than such a murderer as yourself. 
Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues also; they 
differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes 
for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, com 
sists not in action but in character. The bad man is dear 
to me; not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow 
them far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, 
might yet be found more blessed than those of the rarest 
virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but 
because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward your 
escape.” 

“ I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Markheim. 
“ This crime on which you find me is my last. On my way 
to it I have learned many lessons; itself is a lesson, a mo- 
mentous lesson. Hitherto I have been driven with revolt to 
what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, driven 


108 


MARKHEIM. 


and scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in 
these temptations; mine was not so: 1 had a thirst of pleas- 
ure. But to-day, and out of this deed, I pluck both warn- 
ing and riches — both the power and a fresh resolve to be my- 
self. I become in all things a free actor in the world; I 
begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of 
good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out 
of the past; something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath 
evenings to the sound of the church organ, of what I fore- 
cast when I shed tears over noble books, or talked, an in- 
nocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have 
wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of 
destination. ” 

“ You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I 
think?” remarked the visitor; “ and there, if I mistake 
not, you have already lost some thousands ?’ 9 

“ Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure 
thing. ” 

“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor, 
quietly. 

“ Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim. 

“ That also you will lose,” said the other. 

The sweat started upon Markheim ’s brow. “ Well, then, 
what matter?” he exclaimed. “ Say it be lost, say I am 
plunged again in poverty, shall one part of me, and that 
the worse, continue until the end to override the better? 
Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I 
do not love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great 
deeds, renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen 
to such a crime as murder, pity is no stranger to my 
thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows their trials better 
than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love, I love 
honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on 
earth but I love it from my heart. And are my vices only 
to direct my life, and fny virtues to lie without effect, like 


MARKHEIM. 


109 


some passive lumber of the mind? Not so; good, also, is a 
spring of acts. ” 

But the visitant raised his finger. 4 4 For six-and-thirty 
years that you have been in this world,” said he, 44 through 
many changes of fortune and varieties of humor, I have 
watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago you would 
have started at a theft. Three years back you would have 
blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is 
there any cruelty or meanness, from which you still recoil? 
— five years from now I shall detect you in the fact! 
Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can anything but 
death avail to stop you.” 

44 It is true,” Markheim said, huskily, 44 1 have in some 
degree complied with evil. But it is so with all: the very 
saints, in the mere exercise of living, grow less dainty, and 
take on the tone of their surroundings.” 

44 1 will propound to you one simple question,” said the 
other; 44 and as you answer, I shall read to you your moral 
horoscope. You have grown in many things more lax; pos- 
sibly you do right to be so; and at any account, it is the 
same with all men. But granting that, are yon in any one 
particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with 
your own conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser 
rein?” 

44 In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish of 
consideration. 44 No,” he added, with despair, 44 in none! 
I have gone down in all. ” 

44 Then,” said the visitor, 44 content yourself with what 
you are, for you will never change; and the words of your 
part on this stage are irrevocably written down.” 

Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was 
the visitor who first broke the silence. 44 That being so,” 
he said, 44 shall I show you the money?” 

44 And grace?” cried Markheim. 

44 Have you not tried it?” returned the other. 44 Two or 
three years ago, did I not see you on the platform of revival 


110 


MARKHEIM. 


meetings, and was not your voice the loudest in the 
hymn?” 

“ It is true,” said Markheim; “ and I see clearly what 
remains for me by way of duty. I thank you for these les- 
sons from my soul; my eyes are opened, and I behold my- 
self at last for what I am.” 

At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rung 
through the house; and the visitant, as . though this were 
some concerted signal for which he had been waiting, 
changed at once in his demeanor. 

“ The maid!” he cried. “ She has returned, as I fore- 
warned you, and there is now before you one more difficult 
passage. Her master, you must say, is ill; you must let her 
in, with an assured but rather serious countenance — no 
smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once the 
girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that 
has already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last 
danger in your path. Thenceforward you have the whole 
evening — the whole night, if needful — to ransack the treas- 
ures of the house and to make good your safety. This is 
help that comes to you with the mask of danger. IJp!” 
he cried: “ up, friend; your life hangs trembling in the 
scales; up, and act!” 

Markheim steadily regarded his counselor. “If I be 
condemned to evil acts,” he said, “ there is still one door 
of freedom open — I can cease from action. If my life be 
an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, as you say 
truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by 
one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. 
My love of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let 
it be! But I have still my hatred of evil; and from that, 
to your galling disappointment, you shall see that I can 
draw both energy and courage.” 

The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful 
and lovely change: they brightened and softened with a ten- 
der triumph; and, even as they brightened, faded and dis- 


MARKHEIM. 


Ill 


limned. But Markheim did not pause to watch or under- 
stand the transformation. He opened the door and went 
down-stairs very slowly, thinking to him self. His past went 
soberly before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and stren- 
uous like a dream, random as chance-medley — a scene of 
defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no 
longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet haven 
for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into 
the shop, where the candle still burned by the dead body. 
It was strangely silent. Thoughts of the dealer swarmed 
into his mind, as he stood gazing. And then the bell once 
more broke out into impatient clamor. 

He confronted the maid upon the threshold with some* 
thing like a smile. 

“ You had better go for the police/' said he: “ I have 
killed your master. ’ 9 


THRAWN JANET. 


The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the- 
moorland parish of Bal weary, in the vale of Dule. A severe, 
bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, he dwelt in 
the last years of his life, without relative or servant or any 
human company, in the small and lonely manse under the 
Hanging Shaw. In spite of the iron composure of his 
features, his eye was wild, scared, and uncertain; and when 
he dwelt, in private admonitions, on the future of the im- 
penitent, it seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms 
of time to the terrors of eternity. Many young persons, 
coming to prepare themselves against the season of the Holy 
Communion, were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had 
a sermon on 1st Peter, v. and 8th, “ The devil as a roar- 
ing lion,” on the Sunday after every seventeenth of August, 
and he was accustomed to surpass himself upon that text 
both by the appalling nature of the matter and the terror of 
his bearing in the pulpit. The children were frightened 
into fits, and the old looked more than usually oracular, and 
were, all that day, full of those hints that Hamlet depre- 
cated. The manse itself, where it stood by the water of 
Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw overhanging 
it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish 
hilltops rising toward the sky, had begun, at a very early 
period of Mr. Soulis's ministry, to be avoided in the dusk 
hours by all who valued themselves upon their prudence; 
and guidmen sitting at the clachan alehouse shook their 
heads together at the thought of passing late by that uncanny 


THRAWN JANET. 


113 


neighborhood. There was one spot, to be more particular, 
which was regarded with especial awe. The manse stood 
between the high road and the water of Dule, with a gable 
to each; its back was toward the kirktown of Bal weary, 
nearly half a mile away; in front of it, a bare garden, hedged 
with thorn, occupied the land between the river and the 
road. The house was two stories high, with two large room& 
on each. It opened not directly on the garden, but on a 
causewayed path, or passage, giving on the road on the one 
hand, and closed on the other by the tall willows and elders 
that bordered on the stream. And it was this strip of cause- 
way that enjoyed among the young parishioners of Bal weary 
so infamous a reputation. The minister walked there often 
after dark, sometimes groaning aloud in the instancy of his 
unspoken prayers; and when he was from home, and the 
manse door was locked, the more daring school-boys ven- 
tured, with beating hearts, to 4 4 follow my leader ” across 
that legendary spot. 

This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man 
of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common 
cause of wonder and subject of inquiry among the few 
strangers who were led by chance or business into that un- 
known, outlying country. But many even of the people of 
the parish were ignorant of the strange events which had 
marked the first year of Mr. Soulis’s ministrations; and 
among those who were better informed, some were nat- 
urally reticent, and others shy of that particular topic. 
Now and again, only, one of the older folk would warm 
into courage over his third tumbler, and recount the cause 
of the minister’s strange looks and solitary life. 

Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam first into Ba’- 
wearv, he was still a young man — a callant, the folk said 
— fu’ o’ book learniiT and grand at the exposition, but, as 
was natural in sae young a man, wi’ nae leevin’ experience 
in religion. The younger sort were greatly taken wi’ his 
gifts and his gab: but auld, concerned, serious men and 


114 


THRAWN JANET. 


women were moved even to prayer for the 3'0img man, 
whom they took to be a self-deceiver, and the parish that 
was like to be sae ill-supplied. It was before the days o’ 
the moderates — weary fa' them; but ill things are like guid 
— they baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there 
were folk even then that said the Lord had left the college 
professors to their ain devices, an’ the lads that went to 
study wi’ them wad hae done mair and better sittin’ in a 
peat-bog, like their forbears of the persecution, wi’ a Bible 
under their oxter and a speerit o’ prayer in their heart. 
There was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had 
been ower lang at the college. He was careful and troubled 
for mony things besides the ae thing needful. He had a 
feck o’ books wi’ him — mair than had ever been seen be- 
fore in a’ that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had 
wi’ them, for they were a’ like to have smoored in the Deil’s 
Hag between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o' 
divinity, to be sure, or so they ca’d them; but the serious 
were o’ opinion there was little service for sae mony, when 
the hail o’ God’s Word would gang in the neuk of a plaid. 
Then he wad sit half the day and half the nicht forbye, 
which was scant decent— wri tin’, nae less; and first, they 
were feared he wad read his sermons; and syne it proved 
he was writin’ a book hansel’, which was surely no fittin’ 
for ane of his years an’ sma’ experience. 

Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife to 
keep the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners; and he 
was recommended to an auldlimmer — Janet M’ Clour, they 
ca’d her — and sae far left to himsel’ as to be ower per- 
suaded. There was mony advised him to the contrar, for 
Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba’- 
weary. Lang or that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; 
she hadnae come forrit* for maybe thretty year; and 
bairns had seen her mumblin’ to hersel’ up on Key’s Loan 


* To come forrit — to offer oneself as a communicant. 


THRAWN JANET. 


115 


in the gloaming whilk was an unco time an' place for a 
God-fearin' woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himseP 
that had first tauld the minister o' Janet; and in thae days 
he wad have gane a far gate to pleesure the laird. When 
folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the deil, it was a’ su- 
perstition by his way of it; an* when they cast up the Bi- 
ble to him an* the witch of Endor, he wad threep it doun 
their thrapples that thir days were a' gane by, and the deil 
was mercifully restrained. 

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M' Clour 
was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wP 
her an’ him thegether; and some o' the guid wives had nae 
better to dae than get round her door cheeks and chairge 
her wi' a 9 that was keiPt again her, frae the sodger’s bairn 
to John Tamson's twa kye. She was nae great speaker; 
folk usually let her gang her ain gate, an* she let them 
gang theirs, wP neither Eair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day; 
but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave the 
miller. Up she got, an* there wasnae an auld story in 
Ba' weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they 
couldnae say ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, at 
the hinder end, the guid wives up and claught haud of her, 
and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her doun the 
clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch or 
no, soum or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear 
her at the Hangin' Shaw, and she focht like ten; there 
was mony a guid wife bure the mark of her neist day an* 
mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest o' the col- 
lieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new 
minister. 

“ Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “ I 
charge you in the Lord's name to let her go.” 

Janet ran to him —she was fair wud wP terror— an' clang 
to him, an' prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the 
cummers; an' they, for their pairt, tauld him a' that was 
ken't, and maybe mair. 


lie 


THRAWN JANET. 


“ Woman,” says he to Janet, “ is this true?” 

“ As the Lord sees me/' says she, “as the Lord made 
me, no a word o’t. Forbye the bairn,” says she, “ I’ve 
been a decent woman a’* my days.” 

“ Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “ in the name of God, and 
before me. His unworthy minister, renounce the devil and 
his works?” 

Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a 
girn that fairly f rich tit them that saw her, an* they could 
hear her teeth play dirl thege ther in her chafts; but there 
was naething for it but the ae way or the ither; an* Janet 
lifted up her hand and renounced the deil before them a*. 

“ And now,” says Mr. Soulis, to the guid wives, “ home 
with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.” 

And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her 
but a sark, and took her up the clachan to her ain door 
like a leddy of the land; an* her scrieghin’ and laughin’ as 
was a scandal to be heard. 

There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that 
nicht; but when the morn cam there was sic a fear fell 
upon a’ Ba’ weary that the bairns hid theirsels, and even 
the men folk stood and keekit frae their doors. For there 
was Janet cornin’ doun the clachan — her or her likeness, 
nane could tell — wi’ her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae 
side, like a body that has been hangit, and a girn on her 
face like an uustreakit corp. By an’ by they got used wi’ 
it, and even speered at her to ken what was wrang; but 
frae that day forth she could nae speak like a Christian 
woman, but slavered and played click wi’ her teeth like a 
pair o’ shears; and frae that day forth the name o’ God 
cam never on her lips. Whiles she wad try to say it, but 
it micht nae be. Them that kenned best said least; but 
they never gied that Thing the name o’ Janet M’Clour; 
for the auld Janet, by their way o’t, w r as in muckle hell 
that day. But the minister was neither to haud nor to 
bind; he preached about naething but the folk’s cruelty 


THE AWN JANET. 


117 


that had gi*en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the bairns 
that meddled her; and he had her up to the manse that 
same nicht, and d walled there a* his lane wi* her under the 
Hangin* Shaw. 

Weel^time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced to 
think mair lichtly o' that black business. The minister 
was weel thocht o’; he was aye late at the writing, folk 
wad see his canTe doon by the Dule water after twal* at 
e*en; and he seemed pleased wi* himsel* and upsitten as at 
first, though a*body could see that he was dwining. As 
for Janet she cam an* she gaed; if she did nae speak muckle 
afore, it was reason she should speak less then; she med- 
dled naebody; but she was an eldritch thing to see, an* 
nane wad hae mistrysted wF her for Ba* weary glebe. 

About the end o’ July there canF a spell o* weather, the 
like o*t never was in that country-side; it was lown an* 
liet an* heartless; the herds could nae win up the Black 
Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an* yet it was 
gousty too, wi* claps o* het wund that rummTed in the 
glens, and bits o* shouers that slockened nae thing. We aye 
thocht it but to thun*er on the morn; but the morn cam, 
an* the morn*s morning, and it was aye the same uncanny 
weather, sair on folks and bestial. Of a* that were the 
waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep 
nor eat, he tauld his elders; an* when he was nae writin* at 
his weary book, he wad be stravaguin* ower a* the country- 
side like a man possessed, when a* body else was blithe to 
keep caller ben the house. 

Abune Hangin* Shaw, in the bield o* the Black Hill, 
there*s a bit inclosed grund wi* an iron yett; and it seems, 
in the auld days, that was the kirk-yaird o* Ba*weary, and 
consecrated by the Papists before the blessed licht shone 
upon the kingdom. It was a great howff o* Mr. Semite's 
onyway; there he would sit an* consider his sermons; and 
indeed it*s a bieldy bit. Weel, as he came ower the wast 
end o* the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an syne 


118 


THRAWN JANET. 


fower, an’ syne seeven corbie craws fleein’ round an* round 
abune the auld kirk-yaird. They flew laigh and heavy, air 
squawked to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr 
Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar. He 
was nae easy fleyed, an* gaed straucht up to the wa’s; and 
what suld he find there but a man, or the appearance of a 
man, sittin’ in the inside upon a grave. He was of* a great 
stature, an" black as hell, and his e’en were singular to 
see.* Mr. Soulis had heard tell of o’ black men, mony’s 
the time; but there was something unco about this black 
man that daunted him. Het as he was, he took a kind o* 
cauld grue in the marrow o’ his banes; but up he spak for 
a’ that; an’ says he: “ My friend, are you a stranger in 
this placer” The black man answered never a word; he 
got upon his feet, an’ begude to hirsle to the wa’ on the far 
side; but he aye lookit at the minister; an’ the minister 
stood an’ lookit back; till a’ in a meenute the black man 
was ower the wa’ an’ rinnin’ for the bield o’ the trees. Mr. 
Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he was 
sair forjaskit wi’ his walk an’ the het, unhalesome 
weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk 
o’ the black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the 
foot o’ the hill-side, an’ there he saw him ance mair, gaun, 
hap, step, an’ lowp, ower Dixie water to the manse. 

Mr. Soulis was nae weel pleased that this fearsome gan- 
grel suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’ weary manse; an’ he ran 
the harder, an’ wet shoon, ower the burn, an’ up the walk; 
but the deil a black man was there to see. He stepped out 
upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a’ 
ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder 
end, and a bit feared as was but natural, he lifted the hasp 
and into the manse; and there was Janet M’ Clour before 

* It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a 
black man. This appears in several witch trials, and I think in 
Law’s “Memorials,” that delightful store-house of the quaint and 
grisly. 


TH RAWS’ JANET. 


119 


his een, wi' her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to see 
him. And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his 
een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue. 

“ Janet,” says he, “ have you seen a black man?” 

“ A black man?” quo" she. “Save us a’! Ye're no 
wise, minister. There's nae black man in a' Ba' weary. ” 

But she did nae speak plain, ye maun understand; but 
yam -yammered, like a powny wi' the bit in its moo. 

“ Weel,” says he, “ Janet, if there was nae black man, 
I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.'' 

And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth clut- 
tered in his heid. 

“ Hoots,” says she, “ think shame to yoursel', minister;'' 
an' gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her. 

Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books. 
It's a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, 
an' no very dry even in the top o' the simmer, for the 
manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, and thocht 
of a' that had come an' gane since he was in Ba' weary, 
an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran 
dafiin' on the braes; and that black man aye ran in his 
heid like the owercome of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, 
the mair he thocht o' the black man. He tried the prayer, 
an' the words would nae come to him; an' he tried, they 
say, to write at his book, but he could nae mak' nae* mair 
o' that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was at 
his oxter, an' the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; 
and there was other whiles, when he cam to himsel' like a 
christened bairn and minded naething. 

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood 
glowrin' at the Dule water. The trees are unco thick, an' 
the water lies deep an' black under the manse; and there 
was Janet washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted. She had 
her back to the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly ken- 
ned what he was lookin' at. Syne she turned round, an' 
shawed her face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as 


120 


THRAWN JANET. 


twice that day afore, an’ it was borne in upon him what 
folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an* this was & 
bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and 
he scanned her narrowly. She was tramp- trampin’ in the 
cla’es, croonin’ to hersel’; and eh! Gude guide us, but it 
was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder, but there 
was nae man born o’ woman that could tell the words o’ 
her sang; an’ whiles she lookit side- lang doun, but there 
was naething there for her to look at. There gaed a scun- 
ner through the flesh upon his banes; and that was 
Heeven’s advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed him- 
sel’, he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted wife 
that had nae a f reend forbye himsel’; an’ he put up a bit 
prayer for him an’ her, an’ drank a little caller water— for 
his heart rose again the meat — an’ gaed up to his naked 
bed in the gloaming. 

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba’- 
weary, the nicht o’ the seventeenth of August, seventeen 
hun’er’ an twal’. It had been het afore, as I hae said; but 
that nicht it was hetter than ever. The sun gaed doun 
amang unco-lookin’ clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no 
a star, no a breath o’ wund; ye could nae see your han’ 
afore your face, and even the auld folk cuist the covers frae 
their beds and lay pechin’ for their breath. Wi’ a’ that 
he had upon his mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis 
wad get muckle sleep. He lay an’ he tummled; the gude, 
caller bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he 
slept, and whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time o’ 
nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin’ up the muir, as if some- 
body was deid ; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin’ 
in his lug, an’ whiles he saw sp unkies in the room. He 
behooved, he judged, to be sick; an’ sick he was — little he 
jaloosed the sickness. 

At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up 
in his sark on the bed-side, and fell thinkin’ ance mair o’ 
the black man an’ Janet. He could nae weel tell how — 


THItAWX JAXET. 


121 


maybe it was the cauld to his feet — but it cam’ in upon 
him wi’ a spate that there was some connection between 
thir twa, an’ that either or baith o’ them were bogles. And 
just at that moment, in Janet’s room, which was neist to 
his, there cam’ a stramp o’ feet as if men were wars’lin’, 
an’ then a loud bang; an’ then a wund gaed reishling 
round the fower quarters of the house; an’ then a’ was 
aince mair as seelent as the grave. 

Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. He 
got his tinder-box, an’ lit a can’le, an’ made three steps 
o’t ower to Janet’s door. It was on the hasp, an’ he 
pushed it open, an’ keeked bauldly in. It was a big room, 
as big as the minister’s ain, an’ plenished wi’ grand, auld, 
solid gear, for he had naething else. There was a fower- 
posted bed wi’ auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, 
that was fu’ o’ the minister’s divinity books, an’ put there 
to be out o’ the gate; an’ a wheen duds o’ Janet’s lying 
here and there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. 
Soulis see; nor ony sign of a contention. In he gaed (an’ 
there’s few that wad ha’e followed him) an’ lookit a’ 
round, an’ listened. But there was naethin’ to be heard, 
neither inside the manse nor in a’ Ba’ weary parish, an’ 
naethin’ to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin’ round 
the can’le. An’ then a’ at aince, the minister’s heart 
played dunt an’ stood stock-still; an’ a cauld wund blew 
amang the hairs o’ his heid. Wliaten a weary sicht was 
that for the puir man’s een! For there was Janet hangin’ 
frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on 
her shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekit frae 
her mouth, and her heels were twafeet clear abune the floor. 

“ God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Souils, “ poor Janet’s 
dead.” 

He cam’ a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his heart 
fair whammled in his inside. For by what cantrip it wad 
ill -beseem a man to judge, she was hingin’ frae a single 
nail an’ by a single wursted thread for darnin’ hose. 


122 


THE AWN JANET. 


It’s an awfui* thing to be your lane at nicht wi* siccan 
prodigies o* darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the 
Lord. He turned an* gaed his ways oot o* that room, and 
lockit the door ahint him; and step by step, doon the 
stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the canTe on the 
table at the stairfoot. He couldnae pray, he couldnae 
think, he was dreepin* wi* caul* swat, an* nae thing could 
he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin* o* his ain heart. He 
micht may be have stood there an hour, or may be twa, he 
minded sae little; when a* o* a sudden, he heard a laigh, 
uncanny steer upstairs; a foot gaed to an* fro in the 
cham*er whaur the corp was hingin*; syne the door was 
opened, though he minded wee! that he had lockit it; an* 
syne there was a step upon the landin*, an* it seemed to 
him as if the corp was lookin’ ower the rail and doun upon 
him whaur he stood. 

He took up the can*le again (for he couldnae want the 
licht), and as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucat out o* 
the manse an to the far end o* the causeway. It was 
aye pit-mirk; the flame o* the cau*le, when he set it on the 
grund, burned steedy and clear as in a room; nae thing 
moved, but the Uule water seepin’ and sabbin* doon the 
glen, an* yon unhaly footstep that cam* ploddin* doun the 
stairs inside the manse. He kenned the foot ower weel, 
for it was Janet*s; and at ilka step that cam* a wee thing 
nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commended 
his soul to Him that made an* keepit him; “and O 
Lord,** said he, “give me strength this night to war 
against the powers of evil.** 

By this time the foot was comin* through the passage for 
the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa*, as if 
the fearsome thing was feelin* for its way. The saugha 
tossed an* maned thegether, a long sigh cam*, ower the 
hills, the flame o* the can*le was blawn aboot; an* there 
stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi* her grogram goun an’ 
her black mutch, wi* the heid aye upon the shouther, an* 


THRAWN JANET. 


123 

the girn still upon the face o't — leevin', ye wad hae said — 
deid, as Mr. Soulis weel kenned — upon the threshold o' the 
manse. 

It's a strange thing that the saul of man should be that 
thirled into his perishable body; but the minister saw that, 
and his heart didnae break. 

She didnae stand there lang; she began to move again 
an* cam' slowly toward Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under 
the saughs. A* the life o' his body, a’ the strength o' his 
speerit, were glowerin' frae his een. It seemed she was 
gaun to speak, but wan ted' words, an' made a sign wi' the 
left hand. There cam' a clap o' wund, like a cat's fuff; 
oot gaed the can'le, the saughs skrieghed like folk; an' 
Mr. Soulis kenned that, live or die, this was the end o't. 

“ Witch, beldame, devil!" he cried, “ I charge you, by 
the power of God, begone — if you be dead, to the grave — 
if you be damned, to hell." 

An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' the 
Heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, 
desecrated corp o' the witch- wife, sae lang keepit frae the 
grave and hirsled round by deils, lowed up like a brunstane 
spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the thunder followed, 
peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back o' that; 
and Mr. Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, 
wi' skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan. 

That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man 
pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin' six; before eicht, 
he gaed by the change-house at Knockdow; an' no lang 
after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun linkin' doun the 
braes frae Kilmackerlie. There's little doubt but it was 
him that dwalled sae lang in Janet's body; but he was awa' 
at last; and sinsyne the deil has never fashed us in 
Ba 'weary. 

But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, 
lang he lay ravin' in his bed ; and frae that hour to this, he 
was the man ye ken the day. 


OLALLA. 


“ Now," said the doctor, “ my part is done, and, I may 
say, with some vanity, well done. It remains only to get 
you out of this cold and poisonous city, and to give you 
two months of a pure air and an easy conscience. The 
last is your affair. To the first I think I can help you. It 
falls indeed rather oddly; it was but the other day the 
Padre came in from the country; and as he and I are old 
friends, although of contrary professions, he applied to me 
in a matter of distress among some of his parishioners. 
This was a family— but you are ignorant of Spain, and 
even the names of our grandees are hardly known to you; 
suffice it, then, that they were once great people, and are 
now fallen to the brink of destitution. Nothing now be- 
longs to them but the residencia, and certain leagues of 
desert mountain, in the greater part of which not even a 
goat could support life. But the house is a fine old place, 
and stands at a great height among the hills, and most 
salubriously; and I had no sooner heard my friend's tale, 
than I remembered you. I told him I had a wounded 
officer, wounded in the good cause, who was now able to 
make a change; and I proposed that his friends should take 
you for a lodger. Instantly the Padre's face grew dark, 
as I had maliciously foreseen it would. It was out of the 
question, he said. Then let them starve, said I, for I have 
no sympathy with tatterdemalion pride. Thereupon we 
separated, not very content with one another; but yester- 
day, to my wonder, the Padre returned and made a sub- 

( 134 ) 


OLALLA. 


125 


mission: the difficulty, he said, he had found upon inquiry 
to be less than he had feared; or, in other words, these 
proud people had put their pride in their pocket. I closed 
with the offer; and, subject to your approval, 1 have taken 
rooms for you in the residencia. The air of these mount- 
ains will renew your blood; and the quiet in which you will 
there live is worth all the medicines in the world.” 

“ Doctor, ” said I, “ you have been throughout my good 
angel, and your advice is a command. But tell me, if you 
please, something of the family with which I am to re- 
side.” 

“ I am coming to that,” replied my friend; “ and, in- 
deed, there is a difficulty in the way. These beggars are, 
as I have said, of very high descent and swelled with the 
most heartless vanity; they have lived for some generations 
in a growing isolation, drawing away, on either hand, from 
the rich who had now become too high for them, and from 
the poor, whom they still regarded as too low; and even 
to-day, when poverty forces them to unfasten their door 
to a guest, they can not do so without a most ungracious 
stipulation. You are to remain, they say, a stranger; they 
will give you attendance, but they refuse from the first the 
idea of the smallest intimacy. ” 

I will not deny that I was piqued, and perhaps the feeling 
strengthened my desire to go, for I was confident that I 
could break down that barrier if I desired. “ There is 
nothing offensive in such a stipulation,” said I; “ and I 
even sympathize with the feeling that inspired it.” 

“ It is true they have never seen you,” returned the doc- 
tor, politely; “ and if they knew you were the handsomest 
and the most pleasant man that ever came from England 
(where I am told that handsome men are common, but 
pleasant ones not so much so), they would doubtless make 
you welcome with a better grace. But since you take the 
thing so well, it matters not. To me, indeed, it seems dis- 
courteous. But you will find yourself the gainer. The 


126 


OLALLA. 


family will not much tempt you. A mother, a son, and a 
daughter; an old woman said to be half witted, a country 
lout, and a country girl, who stands very high with her 
confessor, and is, therefore,” chuckled the physician, 
“ most likely plain; there is not much in that to attract 
the fancy of a dashing officer.” 

“ And yet you say they are high-born,” I objected. 

<( Well, as to that, I should distinguish,” returned the 
doctor. “ The mother is; not so the children. The 
mother was the last representative of a princely stock, de- 
generate both in parts and fortune. Her father was not only 
poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about the resi- 
dencia till his death. Then, much of the fortune having 
died with him, and the family being quite extinct, the girl 
ran wilder than ever, until at last she married. Heaven 
knows whom, a muleteer some say, others a smuggler; 
while there are some who uphold there was no marriage at 
all, and that Felipe and 01 alia are bastards. The union, 
such as it was, was tragically dissolved some years ago; 
but they live in such seclusion, and the country at that 
time was in so much disorder, that the precise manner of 
the man’s end is known only to the priest — if even to 
him.” 

“ I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,” 
said I. 

“ I would not romance, if I were you,” replied the doc- 
tor; “ you will find, I fear, a very groveling and common- 
place reality. Felipe, for instance, I have seen. And 
what am I to say? He is very rustic, very cunning, very 
loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the others are 
probably to match. No, no, Sefior Commandante, you 
must seek congenial society among the great sights of our 
mountains; and in these at least, if you are at all a lover 
of the works of nature, I promise you will not be disap- 
pointed. ” 

The next day Felipe came for me in a rough country 


OLALLA. 


127 


cart, drawn by a mule; and a little before the stroke of 
noon, after I had said farewell to the doctor, the inn- 
keeper, and different good souls who had befriended me 
during my sickness, we set forth out of the city by the 
Eastern gate, and began to ascend into the Sierra. I had 
been so long a prisoner, since I was left behind for dying 
after the loss of the convoy, that the mere smell of the 
earth set me smiling. The country through which he 
went was wild and rocky, partially covered with rough 
woods, now of the cork-tree, and now of the great Spanish 
chestnut, and frequently intersected by the beds of mount- 
ain torrents. The sun shone, the wind rustled joyously; 
and we had advanced some miles, and the city had already 
shrunk into an inconsiderable knoll upon the plain behind 
us, before my attention began to be diverted to the com- 
panion of my drive. To the eye, he seemed but a diminu- 
tive, loutish, well-made country lad, such as the doctor had 
described, mighty quick and active, but devoid of any cult- 
ure; and this first impression was with most observers 
final. What began to strike me was his familiar, chatter- 
ing talk; so strangely inconsistent with the terms on which 
I was to be received; and partly from his imperfect 
enunciation, partly from the sprightly incoherence of the 
matter, so very difficult to follow clearly without an effort 
of the mind. It is true I had before talked with persons 
of a similar mental constitution; persons who seemed to 
live (as he did) by the senses, taken and possessed by the 
visual object of the moment and unable to discharge their 
minds of that impression. His seemed to me (as I sat, dis- 
tantly giving ear) a kind of conversation proper to drivers, 
who pass much of their time in a great vacancy of the in- 
tellect and threading the sights of a familiar country. But 
this was not the case of Felipe; oy his own account, he was 
a home-keeper; “ I wish I was there now,” he said; and 
then spying a tree by the way-side, he broke off to tell me 
that he had once seen a crow among its branches. 


128 


OLALLA. 


“ A crow?” I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of the 
remark, and thinking I had heard imperfectly. 

But by this time he was already filled with a new idea; 
hearkening with a rapt intentness, his head on one side, 
his face puckered; and he struck me rudely, to make me 
hold my peace. Then he smiled and shook his head. 

“ What did you hear?” I asked. 

“ Oh, it is all right,” he said; and began encouraging 
his mule with cries that echoed unhumanly up the mount- 
ain walls. 

I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well 
built, light, and lithe and strong; he was well-featured; 
his yellow eyes were very large, though, perhaps, not very 
expressive; take him altogether, he was a pleasant-looking 
lad, and I had no fault to find with him, beyond that he 
• was of a dusky hue, and inclined to hairyness; two char- 
acteristics that I disliked. It was his mind that puzzled, 
and yet attracted me. The doctor’s phrase — an innocent 
— came back to me; and I was wondering if that were, 
after all, the true description, when the road began to go 
down into the narrow and naked chasm of a torrent. The 
waters thundered tumultuously in the bottom; and the 
ravine was filled full of the sound, the thin spray, and the 
claps of wind, that accompanied their descent. The scene 
was certainly impressive; but the road was in that part 
very securely walled in; the mule went steadily forward; 
and I was astonished to perceive the paleness of terror in 
the face of. my companion. The voice of that wild river 
was inconstant, now sinking lower as if in weariness, now 
doubling its hoarse tones; momentary freshets seemed to 
swell its volume, sweeping down the gorge, raving and 
booming against the barrier walls; and I observed it was at 
each of these accessions to the clamor, that my driver more 
particularly winced and blanched. Some thoughts of Scot- 
tish superstition and the river Kelpie passed across my 
mind; I wondered if perchance the like were prevalent in 


OLALLA. 


129 


that part of Spain; and turning to Felipe, sought to draw 
him out. 

“ What is the matter?” I asked. 

“ Oh, I am afraid,” he replied. 

“Of what are you afraid?” I returned. “This seems 
one of the safest places on this very dangerous road.” 

“ It makes a noise,” he said, with a simplicity of awe 
that set my doubts at rest. 

The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was like 
Ids body, active and swift, but stunted in development; 
and I began from that time forth to regard him with a 
measure of pity, and to listen at first with indulgence, 
and at last even with pleasure, to his disjointed babble. 

By about four in the afternoon we had crossed the sum- 
mit of the mountain line, said farewell to the western sun- 
shine, and began to go down upon the other side, skirting 
the edge of many ravines and moving through the shadow 
of dusky woods. There rose upon all sides the voice of 
falling water, not condensed and formidable as in the gorge 
of the river, but scattered and sounding gayly and music- 
ally from glen to glen. Here, too, the spirits of my driver 
mended, and he began to sing aloud in a falsetto voice, and 
with a singular bluntness of musical perception, never true 
oither to melody or key, but wandering at will, and yet 
somehow with an effect that was natural and pleasing, like 
that of the, song of birds. As the* dusk increased, I fell 
more and more under the spell of this artless warbling, 
listening and waiting for some articulate air, and still dis- 
appointed; and when at last I asked him what it was he 
sung — “ Oh,” cried he, “ I am just singing!” Above all, 
I was taken with a trick he had of unweariedly repeating 
the same note at little intervals; it was not so monotonous 
as you would think, or, at least, not disagreeable; and it 
seemed to breathe a wonderful contentment with what is, 
such as we love to fancy in the attitude of trees, or the 
^quiescence of a pool. 


130 


OLALLA. 


Night had fallen dark before we came out upon a pla- 
teau, and drew up a little after, before a certain lump of 
superior blackness which I could only conjecture to be tlio 
residencia. Here, my guide, getting down from the cart, 
hooted and whistled for a long time in vain; until at last 
an old peasant man came toward us from somewhere in the 
surrounding dark, carrying a candle in his hand. By the 
light of this I was able to perceive a great arched door-way 
of a Moorish character: it was closed by iron-studded gates, 
in one of the leaves of which Felipe opened a wicket. The 
peasant carried off the cart to some out-building; but my 
guide and I passed through the wicket, which was closed 
again behind us; and by the glimmer of the candle, passed 
through a court, up a stone stair, along a section of an 
open gallery, and up more stairs again, until we came at 
last to the door of a great and somewhat bare apartment. 
This room, which I understood was to be mine, was pierced 
by three windows, lined with some lustrous wood disposed 
in panels, and carpeted with the skins of many savage ani- 
mals. A bright fire burned in the chimney, and shed 
abroad a changeable flicker; close up to the blaze there was 
drawn a table, laid for supper; and in the far end a bed 
stood ready. I was pleased by these preparations, and said 
so to Felipe; and he, with the same simplicity of disposi- 
tion that I had already remarked in him, warmly re-echoed, 
my praises. “ A fine room,” he said; “ a very fine room. 
And fire, too; fire is good; it melts out the pleasure in 
your bones. And the bed,” he continued, carrying over 
the candle in that direction — “ see what fine sheets — how 
soft, how smooth, smooth;” and he passed his hand again 
and again over their texture, and then laid down his head 
and rubbed his cheeks among them with a grossness of 
content that somehow offended me. I took the candle 
from his hand (for I feared he would set the bed on fire) 
and walked back to the supper-table, where, perceiving a 
measure of wine, I poured out a cup and called to him to 


OLALLA. 


131 


come and drink of it. He started to his feet at once and 
ran to me with a strong expression of hope; but when he 
saw the wine, he visibly shuddered. 

“ Oh, no,” he said, c< not that; that is for you. I hate 
It.” 

“ Very well, senor,” said I; “ then I will drink to your 
good health, and to the prosperity of your house and fam- 
ily. Speaking of which," I added, after I had drunk, 
544 shall I not have the pleasure of laying my salutations in 
person at the feet of the senora, your mother?” 

But at these words all the childishness passed out of his 
face, and was succeeded by a look of indescribable cunning 
and secrecy. He backed away from me at the same time, 
as though I were an animal about to leap or some danger- 
ous fellow with a weapon, and when he had got near the 
door, glowered at me sullenly with contracted pupils. 
'“No," he said, at last, and the next moment was gone 
noiselessly out of the room; and I heard his footing die 
away down-stairs as light as rainfall, and silence closed 
over the house. 

After I had supped I drew up the table nearer to the 
bed and began to prepare for rest; but in the new posi- 
tion of the light, I was struck by a picture on the wall. It 
represented a woman, still young. To judge by her cos- 
tume and the mellow unity /which reigned over the canvas, 
she had long been dead; to judge by the vivacity of the at- 
titude, the eyes and the features, I might have been be- 
holding in a mirror the image of life. Her figure was very 
slim*and strong, and of a just proportion; red tresses lay 
like a crown over her brow; her eyes, of a very golden 
brown, held mine with a look; and her face, which was 
perfectly shaped, was yet marred by a cruel, sullen, and 
sensual expression. Something in both face and figure, 
something exquisitely intangible, like the echo of an echo, 
suggested the features and bearing of my guide; and I 
stood awhile, unpleasantly attracted and wondering at the 


132 


OLALLA. 


oddity of the resemblance. The common, carnal stock of 
that race, which had been originally designed for such high 
dames as the one now looking on me from the canvas, had 
fallen to baser uses, wearing country clothes, sitting on the^ 
shaft and holding the reins of a mule cart, to bring home a. 
lodger. Perhaps an actual link subsisted; perhaps some 
scruple of the delicate flesh that was once clothed upon 
with the satin and brocade of the dead lady, now winced at 
the rude contact of Felipe’s frieze. 

The first light 'of the morning shone full upon the por- 
trait, and, as I lay awake, my eyes continued to dwell upon 
it with growing complacency: its beauty crept about my" 
heart insidiously, silencing my scruples one after another; 
and while I knew that to love such a woman were to sign 
and seal one’s own sentence of degeneration, I still knew 
that, if she were alive, I should love her. Day after day 
the double knowledge of her wickedness and of my weak- 
ness grew clearer. She came to be the heroine of many 
day-dreams, in which her eyes led on to, and suffi ciently 
rewarded, crimes. She cast a dark shadow on my fancy; 
and when I was out in the free air of heaven, taking vigor- 
ous exercise and healthily renewing the current of my 
blood, it was often a glad thought to me that my enchant- 
ress was safe in the grave, her wand of beauty broken, her 
lips closed in silence, her philter spilled. And yet I had a 
half-lingering terror that she might not be dead after all, 
but rearisen in the body of some descendant. 

Felipe served my meals in my own apartment; and his 
resemblance to the portrait haunted me. At times ft wa& 
not; at times, upon some change of attitude or flash of ex- 
pression, it would leap out upon me like a ghost. It was*, 
above all in his ill tempers that the likeness triumphed. 

He certainly liked me; he was proud of my notice, 
which he sought to engage by many simple and child-like^ 
devices; he loved to sit close before my fire, talking his 
broken talk or singing his odd, endless, wordless songs, and 


OLALLA. 


133 


sometimes drawing his hand over my clothes with an affec- 
tionate manner of caressing that never failed to cause in 
me an embarrassment of which I was ashamed. But for 
all that, he was capable of flashes of causeless anger and 
fits of sturdy sullenness. At a word of reproof, I have seen 
him upset the dish of which I was about to eat, and this 
not surreptitiously, but with defiance; and similarly at a 
hint of inquisition. I was not unnaturally curious, being 
in a strange place and surrounded by strange people, but 
at the shadow of a question, he shrunk back, lowering and 
dangerous. Then it was that, for a fraction of a second, 
this rough lad might have been the brother of the lady in 
the frame. But these humors were swift to pass; and the 
resemblance died along with them. 

In these first days I saw nothing of any one but Felipe, 
unless the portrait is to be counted; and since the lad was 
plainly of weak mind, and had moments of passion, it may 
be wondered that I bore his dangerous neighborhood with 
equanimity. As a matter of fact, it was for some time 
irksome; but it happened before long that I obtained over 
him so complete a mastery as set my disquietude at rest. 

It fell in this way. He was by nature slothful, and 
much of a vagabond, and yet he kept by the house, and 
not only waited upon my wants, but labored every day in’ 
the garden or small farm to the south of the residencia. 
Here he would be joined by the peasant whom I had seen 
on the night of my arrival, and who dwelt at the far end 
of the inclosure, about half a mile away, in a rude out- 
house; but it was plain to me that, of these two, it was 
Felipe who did most; and though I would sometimes see 
him throw down his spade and go to sleep among the very 
plants he had been digging, his constancy and energy were 
admirable in themselves, and still more so since I was well 
assured they were foreign to his disposition and the fruit 
of an ungrateful effort. But while I admired, I wondered 
what had called forth in a lad so shuttle-witted this endur- 


134 


QLALLA. 


ing sense of duty. How was it sustained? I asked myself, 
and to what length did it prevail over his instincts? The 
priest was possibly his inspirer; but the priest came one 
day to the residencia. I saw him both come and go after 
an interval of close upon an hour, from a knoll where I 
was sketching, and all that time Felipe continued to labor 
undisturbed in the garden. 

At last, in a very unworthy spirit, I determined to de- 
bauch the lad from his good resolutions, and, waylaying 
him at the gate, easily persuaded him to join me in a ram- 
ble. It was a fine day, and the woods to which I led him 
were green and pleasant and sweet-smelling and alive with 
the hum of insects. Here he discovered himself in a fresh 
character, mounting up to heights of gayety that abashed 
me, and displaying an energy and grace of movement that 
delighted the eye. He leaped, he ran round me in mere 
glee; he would stop, and look and listen, and seemed to 
drink in the world like a cordial; and then he would sud- 
denly spring into a tree with one bound, and hang and 
gambol there like one at home. Little as he said to me, 
and that of not much import, I have rarely enjoyed more 
stirring company; the sight of his delight was a continual 
feast; the speed and accuracy of his movements pleased 
me to the heart; and I might have been so thoughtlessly 
unkind as to make a habit of these walks, had not chance 
prepared a very rude conclusion to my pleasure. By some 
swiftness or dexterity the lad captured a squirrel in a tree- 
top. He was then some way ahead of me, but I saw him 
drop to the ground and crouch there, crying aloud for 
pleasure like a child. The sound stirred my sympathies, 
it was so fresh and innocent; but as I bettered my pace to 
draw near, the cry of the squirrel knocked upon my heart. 
I have heard and seen much of the cruelty of lads, and 
above all of peasants; but what I now beheld struck me 
into a passion of anger. I thrust the fellow aside, plucked the 
poor brute out of his hands, and with swift mercy killed it. 


OLALLA. 


135 


Then I turned upon the torturer, spoke to him long out of 
the heat of my indignation, calling him names at which he 
seemed to wither; and at length, pointing toward the resi- 
dencia, bade him begone and leave me, for I chose to walk 
with men, not with vermin. He fell upon his knees, and, 
the words coming to him with more clearness than usual, 
poured out a stream of the most touching supplications, 
begging me in mercy to forgive him, to forget what he 
had done, to look to the future. 44 Oh, I try so hard/' he 
said. 44 Oh, commandante, bear with Felipe this once; he 
will never be a brute again!" Thereupon, onuch more 
affected than I cared to show, I suffered myself to be per- 
suaded, and at last shook hands with him and made it up. 
But the squirrel, by way of penance, I made him bury; 
speaking of the poor thing's beauty, telling him what 
pains it had suffered, and how base a thing was the abuse 
of strength. 44 See, Felipe," said I, “you are 'strong in- 
deed; but in my hands you are as helpless as that poor 
thing of the trees. Give me your hand in mine. You can 
not remove it. Now suppose that I were cruel like you, 
and took a pleasure in pain. I only tighten my hold, and 
see how you suffer." He screamed aloud, his face stricken 
ashy and dotted with needle points of sweat; and w r hen I 
set him free, he fell to the earth and nursed his hand and 
moaned over it like a baby. But he took the lesson in 
good part; and whether from that, or from what I had said 
to him, or the higher notion he now had of my bodily 
strength, his original affection was changed into a dog- like, 
adoring fidelity. 

Meanwhile I gained rapidly in health. The residencia 
stood on the crown of a stony plateau; on every side the 
mountains hemmed it about; only from the roof, where was 
a bartizan, there might be seen between two peaks, a small 
segment of plain blue, with extreme distance. The air in 
these altitudes moved freely and largely; great clouds con- 
gregated there, and were broken up by the wind and left in 


136 


OLALLA. 


tatters on the hill -tops; a hoarse, and yet faint rumbling of 
torrents rose from all round; and one could there study all 
the ruder and more ancient characters of nature in some- 
thing of their pristine force. I delighted from the first in* 
the vigorous scenery and changeful weather; nor less in the 
antique and dilapidated mansion where I dwelt. This 
was a large oblong, flanked at two opposite corners by 
bastion-like projections, one of which commanded the door, 
while both were loop-hooled for musketry. The lower story 
was, besides, naked of windows, so that the building, if gar- 
risoned, could not be carried without artillery. It inclosed 
an open court planted with pomegranate-trees. From this 
a broad flight of marble stairs ascended, to an open gallery, 
running all round and resting, toward the court, on slender 
pillars. Thence again, several inclosed stairs led to the 
upper stories of the house, which were thus broken up into 
distinct divisions. The windows, both within and without, 
were closely shuttered; some of the stone- work in the upper 
parts had fallen; the roof, in one place, had been wrecked 
in one of the flurries of wind which were common in these 
mountains; and the whole house, in the strong, beating 
sunlight, and standing out above a grove of stunted cork- 
trees, thickly laden and discolored with dust, looked like the 
sleeping palace of the legend. The court, in particular, 
seemed the very home of slumber. A hoarse cooing of 
doves haunted about the eaves; the winds were excluded, 
but when they blew outside, the mountain dust fell here as 
thick as rain, and veiled the red bloom of the pome- 
granates; shuttered windows and the closed doors of numer- 
ous cellars, and the vacant arches of the gallery, inclosed 
it; and all day long the sun made broken profiles on the 
four sides, and paraded the shadow of the pillars on the 
gallery floor. At the ground level there was, however, a 
certain pillared recess, which bore the marks of human 
habitation. Though it was open in front upon the court, 
it was yet provided with a chimney, where' a wood-fire would 


OLALLA. 137 

be always prettily blazing; and the tile floor was littered 
with the skins' of animals. 

It was in this place that I first saw my hostess. She had 
drawn one of the skins forward and sat in the sun, leaning 
against a pillar. It was her dress that struck me first of 
all, for it was rich and brightly colored, and shone out in 
that dusty court-yard with something of the same relief as 
the flowers of the pomegranates. At a second look it was 
her beauty of person that took hold of me. As she sat 
back — watching me, I thought, though with invisible eyes 
— and wearing at the same time an expression of almost 
imbecile good-humor and contentment, she showed a per- 
fectness of feature and a quiet nobility of attitude that were 
beyond a statue's. I took off my hat to her in passing, 
and her face puckered with suspicion as swiftly and lightly 
as a pool ruffles in the breeze; but she paid no heed to my 
courtesy. I went forth on my customary walk a trifle 
daunted, her idol-like impassivity haunting me; and when 
I returned, although she was still in much the same posture, 
I was half surprised to see that she had moved as far as the 
next pillar, following the sunshine. This time, however, 
she addressed me with some trivial salutation, civilly enough 
conceived, and uttered in the same deep-chested, and yet 
indistinct and lisping tones, that had already baffled the 
utmost niceness of my hearing from her son. I answered 
rather at a venture; for not only did I fail to take her 
meaning with precision, but the sudden disclosure of her 
eyes disturbed me. They were unusually large, the iris 
golden like Felipe's, but the pupil at that moment so dis- 
tended that they seemed almost black; and what affected 
me was not so much their size as (what was perhaps its con- 
sequence) the singular insignificance of their regard. A 
look more blankly stupid I have never met. My eyes 
dropped before it even as I spoke, and I went on my way 
upstairs to my own room, at once baffled and embarrassed. 
Yet, when I came there and saw the face of the portrait, I 


138 


OLALLA. 


was again reminded of the miracle of family descent. My 
hostess was, indeed, both older and fuller m person; her 
eyes were of a different color; her face, besides, was not 
only free from the ill-significance that offended and at- 
tracted me in the painting; it was devoid of either good or 
bad — a moral blank expressing literally naught. And yet 
there was a likeness, not so much speaking as immanent, 
not so much in any particular feature as upon the whole. 
It should seem, I thought, as if when the master set his sig- 
nature to that grave canvas, he had not only caught the im- 
age of one smiling and false-eyed woman, but stamped the 
essential quality of a race. 

From that day forth, whether I came or went, I was sure 
to find the sefiora seated in the sun against a pillar, or 
stretched on a rug before the fire; only at times she would 
shift her station to the top round of the* stone staircase, 
where she lay with the same nonchalance right across my 
path. In all these days, I never knew her to display the 
least spark of energy beyond what she expended in brush- 
ing and rebrushing her copious copper-colored hair, or in 
lisping out, in the rich and broken hoarseness of her voice, 
her customary idle salutations to myself. These, I think, 
were her two chief pleasures, beyond that of mere quies- 
cence. She seemed always proud of her remarks, as though 
they had been witticisms; and, indeed, though they were 
empty enough, like the conversation of many respectable per- 
sons, and turned on a very narrow range of subjects, they 
were never meaningless or incoherent; nay, they had a cer- 
tain beauty of their own, breathing, as they did, of her en- 
tire contentment. Now she would speak of the warmth in 
which (like her son) she greatly delighted; now of the white 
doves and long-winged swallows that fanned the air of the 
court. The birds excited her. As they raked the eaves in 
their swift flight, or skimmed sidelong past her with a rush 
of wind, she would sometimes stir, and sit a little up, and 
seem to awaken from her doze of satisfaction. But for 


OLALLA. 


139 


the rest cf her days she lay luxuriously folded on herself and 
sunk in sloth and pleasure. Her invincible content at first 
annoyed me, but I came gradually to find repose in the 
spectacle, until at last it grew to be my habit to sit down 
beside her four times in the day, both coming and going, 
and to talk with her sleepily, I scarce knew of what. I had 
come to like her dull, almost animal neighborhood; her 
beauty and her stupidity soothed and amused me. I began 
to find a kind of transcendental good sense in her remarks, 
and her unfathomable good nature moved me to admira- 
tion and envy. The liking was returned; she enjoyed my 
presence half unconsciously, as a man in deep meditation 
may enjoy the babbling of a brook. I can scarce say she 
brightened when I came, for satisfaction was written on her 
face eternally, as on some foolish statue's; but I was made 
conscious of her pleasure by some more intimate communi- 
cation than the sight. And one day, as I sat within reach 
of her on the marble step, she suddenly shot forth one of 
her hands and patted mine. The thing was done, and she 
was back in her accustomed attitude before my mind had 
received intelligence of the caress; and when I turned to 
look her in the face I could perceive no answerable senti- 
ment. It was plain she attached no moment to the act, 
and I blamed myself for my own more uneasy conscious- 
ness. 

The sight and (if I may so call it) the acquaintance of 
the mother confirmed the view I had already taken of the 
son. The family blood had been impoverished, perhaps 
by long in-breeding, which I knew to be a common error 
among the proud and the exclusive. No decline, indeed, 
was to be traced in the body, which had been handed down 
unimpaired in shapeliness and strength; and the faces of 
to-day were struck as sharply from the mint as the face of 
two centuries ago that smiled upon me from the portrait. 
But the intelligence (that more precious heir-loom) was de- 
generate; the treasure of ancestral memory ran low; and it 


140 


OLALLA. 


had required the potent, plebeian crossing of a muleteer or 
mountain contrabandista to raise what approached hebetude 
in the mother into the active oddity of the son. Yet, of 
the two, it was the mother I preferred. Of Felipe, venge- 
ful and placable, full of starts and shyings, inconstant as a 
hare, I could even conceive as a creature possibly noxious. 
Of the mother I had no thoughts but those of kindness. 
And, indeed, as spectators are apt ignorantly to take sides, 
I grew something of a partisan in the enmity which I per- 
ceived to smolder between them. True, it seemed mostly 
on the mother's part. She would sometimes draw in her 
breath as he came near, and the pupils of her vacant eyes 
would contract with horror or fear. Her emotions, such 
as they were, were much upon the surface and readily 
shared; and this latent repulsion occupied my mind, and 
kept me wondering on what grounds it rested, and whether 
the son was certainly in fault. 

I had been about ten days in the residencia, when there 
sprung up a high and harsh wind, carrying clouds of dust. 
It came out of malarious lowlands, and over several snowy 
sierras. The nerves of those on whom it blew were strung 
and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust; their legs 
ached under the burden of their body; and the touch of 
one hand upon another grew to be odious. The wind, be- 
sides, came down the gullies of the hills and stormed about 
the house with a great, hollow buzzing and whistling that 
was wearisome to the ear and dismally depressing to the 
mind. It did not so much blow in gusts as with the steady 
sweep of a water-fall, so that there was no remission of dis- 
comfort while it blew. But higher upon the mountain, it 
was probably of a more variable strength, with accesses of 
fury; for there came down at times a far-off wailing, in- 
finitely grievous to hear; and at times, on one of the high 
shelves or terraces, there would start up, and then disperse, 
a tower of dust, like the smoke of an explosion. 

I no sooner awoke in bed than I was conscious of the 


OLALLA. 


141 


nervous tension and depression of the weather, and the 
effect grew stronger as the day proceeded. It was in vain 
that I resisted; in vain that I set forth upon my customary 
morning’s walk; the irrational, unchanging fury of the 
storm had soon beat down my strength and wrecked my 
temper; and I returned to the residencia, glowing with dry 
heat, and foul and gritty with dust. The court had a for- 
lorn appearance; now and then a glimmer of sun fled over 
it; now and then the wind swooped down upon the pome- 
granates, and scattered the blossoms, and set the window 
shutters clapping on the wall. In the recess the senora 
was pacing to and fro with a flushed countenance and 
bright eyes; I thought, too, she was speaking to herself, 
like one in anger. But when I addressed her with my cus- 
tomary salutation, she only replied by a sharp gesture and 
continued her walk. The weather had distemjDered even 
this impassive creature; and as I went on upstairs I was the 
less ashamed of my own discomposure. 

All day the wind continued; and 1 sat in my room and 
made a feint of reading, or walked up and down, and list- 
ened to the riot overhead. Night fell, and I had not so 
much as a candle. I began to long for some society, and 
stole down to the court. It was now plunged in the bine 
of the first darkness; but the recess was redly lighted by 
the fire. The wood had been piled high, and was crowned 
by a shock of flames, which the draught of the chimney 
n-andished to and fro. In this strong and shaken bright- 
ness the senora continued pacing from wall to wall with 
•disconnected gestures, clasping her hands, stretching forth 
her arms, throwing back her head as in appeal to heaven. 
In these disordered movements the beauty and grace of the 
woman showed more clearly; but there was a light in her 
eye that struck on me unpleasantly; and when I had looked 
on awhile in silence, and seemingly unobserved, I turned 
tail as I had come, and groped my way back again to my 
4)wn chamber. 


142 


OLALLA. 


By the time Felipe brought my supper and lights, my 
nerve was utterly gone; and, had the lad been such as I was 
used to seeing him, I should have kept him (even by force 
had that been necessary) to take off the edge from my dis- 
tasteful solitude. But on Felipe, also, the wind had ex- 
ercised its influence. He had been feverish all day; now 
that the night had come he was fallen into a low and trem- 
ulous humor that reacted on my own. The sight of his 
scared face, his starts and pallors and sudden harkenings* 
unstrung me; and when he dropped and broke a dish, I 
fairly leaped out of my seat. 

“ I think we are all mad to-day,” said I, affecting to 
laugh. 

te It is the black wind,” he replied, dolefully. “ You feel 
as if you must do something, and you don't know what it 
is.” 

I noted the aptness of the description; but, indeed, Felipe 
had sometimes a strange felicity in rendering into words the 
sensations of the body. “ And your mother, too,” said I; 
“ she seems to feel this weather much. Do you not fear 
she may be unwell?” 

He stared at me a little, and then said, “ Ho,” almost 
defiantly; and the next moment, carrying his hand to his 
brow, cried out lamentably on the wind and the noise that 
made his head go round like a mill-wheel. “ Who can bo 
well?” he cried; and, indeed, I could only echo his ques- 
tion, for I was disturbed enough myself. 

I went to bed early, wearied with day-long restlessness: 
but the poisonous nature of the wind, and its ungodly and 
unintermittent uproar, would not suffer me to sleep. I lay 
there and tossed, my nerves and senses on the stretch. At 
times I would doze, dream horribly, and wake again; and 
these snatches of oblivion confused me as to time. But it 
must have been late on in the night., when I was suddenly 
satrtled by an outbreak of pitiable and hateful cries. I 
leaped from my bed, supposing I had dreamed; but the 


OLALLA. 


143 


cries still continued to fill the house, cries of pain, I 
thought, but certainly of rage also, and so savage and dis- 
cordant that they shocked the heart. It was no illusion; 
some living thing, some lunatic or some wild animal, was 
being foully tortured. The thought of Felipe and the 
squirrel flashed into my mind, and I ran to the door, but it 
had been locked from the outside; and I might shake it as 
I pleased, I was a fast prisoner. Still the cries continued. 
Now they would dwindle down into a moaning that seemed 
to be articulate, and at these times I made sure they must 
be human; and again they would break forth and fill the 
house with ravings worthy of hell. I stood at the door and 
gave ear to them, till at last they died away. Long after 
that, I still lingered and still continued to hear them mingle 
in fancy with the storming of the wind; and when at last 
I crept to my bed, it was with a deadly sickness and a 
blackness of horror on my heart. 

It was little wonder if I slept no more. Why had I been 
locked in? What had passed? Who was the author of 
these indescribable and shocking cries? A human being? 
It was inconceivable. A beast? The cries were scarce 
quite bestial; and what animal, short of a lion or a tiger, 
could thus shake the solid walls of the residencia? And 
while I was thus turning over the elements of the mystery, 
it came into my mind that I had not yet set eyes upon the 
daughter of the house. What was more probable than 
that the daughter of the senora, and the sister of Felipe, 
should be herself insane? Or, what more likely than that 
these ignorant and half-witted people should seek to man- 
age an afflicted kinswoman by violence? Here was a solu- 
tion; and yet when I called to mind the cries (which I 
never did without a shuddering chill) it seemed altogether 
insufficient; not even cruelty could wring such cries from 
madness. But of one thing I was sure: I could not live in 
a house where such a thing was half conceivable, and not 
probe the matter home and, if necessary, interfere. 


144 


OLALLA. 


The next day came, the wind had blown itself out, and 
there was nothing to remind me of the business of the 
night. Felipe came to my bedside with obvious cheerful- 
ness; as I passed through the court, the senora was sun- 
ning herself with her accustomed immobility : and when I 
issued from the gate- way, I found the whole face of nature 
austerely smiling, the heavens of a cold blue, and sowit 
with great cloud islands, and the mountain-sides mapped 
forth into provinces of light and shadow. A short walk 
restored me to myself, and renewed within me the resolve 
to plumb this mystery; and when, from the vantage of my 
knoll, I had seen Felipe pass forth to his labors in the 
garden, I returned at once to the residencia to put my de- 
sign in practice. The senora appeared plunged in slumber;, 
I stood awhile and marked her, but she did not stir; even 
if my design were indiscreet I had little to fear from such a 
guardian; and turning away, I mounted to the gallery and. 
began my exploration of the house. 

All morning I went from one door to another, and en- 
tered spacious and faded chambers, some rudely shuttered, 
some receiving their full charge of daylight, all empty and 
unhomely. It was a rich house, on which Time had 
breathed his tarnish and dust had scattered disillusion. 
The spider swung there; the bloated tarantula scampered 
on the cornices; ants had their crowded highways on the 
floor of halls of audience; the big and foul fly, that lives om 
carrion and is often the messenger of death, had set up his* 
nest in the rotten wood-work, and buzzed heavily about the- 
rooms. Here and there a stool or two, a couch, a bed, or 
a great carved chair remained behind, like islets on the 
bare floors, to testify of man's bygone habitation; and 
everywhere the walls were set with the portraits of the dead. 

I could judge, by these decaying effigies, in the house of 
what a great and what a handsome race I was then wander- 
ing. Many of the men wore orders on their breasts and 
had the port of noble offices; the women were all richly? 


OLALLA. 


145 


attired; the canvases most of them by famous hands. But 
it was not so much these evidences of greatness that took 
hold upon my mind, even contrasted, as they were, with 
the present depopulation and decay of that great house. It 
was rather the parable of family life that I read in this 
succession of fair faces and shapely bodies. Never before 
had I so realized the miracle of the continued race, the cre- 
ation and recreation, the weaving and changing and hand- 
ing down of fleshly elements. That a child should be bora 
of its mother, that it should grow and clothe itself (we 
know not how) with humanity, and put on inherited looks, 
and turn its head with the manner of one ascendant, and 
offer its hand with the gesture of another, are wonders 
dulled for us by repetition. But in the singular unity of 
look, in the common features and common bearing of all 
these painted generations on the walls of the residency 
the miracle started out and looked me in the face. And 
an ancient mirror falling opportunely in my way, I stood 
and read my own features a long while, tracing out on 
either hand the filaments of descent and the bonds that 
knit me with my family. 

At last, in the course of these investigations, I opened 
the door of a chamber that bore the marks of habitation. 
It was of large proportions and faced to the north, where 
the mountains were most wildly figured. The embers of a 
fire smoldered and smoked upon the hearth, to which a 
chair had been drawn close. And yet the aspect of the 
chamber was ascetic to the degree of sternness; the chair 
was uncushioned; the floor and walls were naked; and be- 
yond the books which lay here and therein some confusion,, 
there was no instrument of either work or pleasure. The 
sight of books in the house of such a family exceedingly 
amazed me; and I began with a great hurry, and in mo- 
mentary fear of interruption, to go from one to another 
and hastily inspect their character. They were of all sorts, 
devotional, historical, and scientific, but mostly of a great 


146 


OLALLA. 


age and in the Latin tongue. Some I could see to bear the 
marks of constant study; others had been tom across and 
tossed aside as if in petulance or disapproval. Lastly, as I 
cruised about that empty chamber, I espied some papers 
written upon with pencil on a table near the window. An 
unthinking curiosity led me to take one up. It bore a copy 
of verses, very roughly metred in the original Spanish, and 
which I may render somewhat thus — 

“ Pleasure approached with pain and shame, 

Grief with a wreath of lilies came. 

Pleasure showed the lovely sun; 

Jesu, dear, how sweet it shone! 

Grief with her worn hand pointed on, 

Jesu, dear, to Thee!” 

Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, laying 
down the paper, I beat an immediate retreat from the 
apartment. Neither Felipe nor his mother could have read 
the books nor written these rough but feeling verses. It 
was plain I had stumbled with sacrilegious feet into the 
room of the daughter of the house. God knows, my own 
heart most sharply punished me for my indiscretion. The 
thought that 1 had thus secretly pushed my way into the 
confidence of a girl so strangely situated, and the fear that 
she might somehow come to hear of it, oppressed me like 
guilt. I blamed myself besides for my suspicions of the 
night before; wondered that I should ever have attributed 
those shocking cries to one of whom I now conceived as of 
a saint, spectral of mien, wasted with maceration, bound 
up in the practices of a mechanical devotion, and dwelling 
In a great isolation of soul with her incongruous relatives; 
and as I leaned on the balustrade of the gallery and looked 
down into the bright close of pomegranates and at the gay- 
ly dressed and somnolent woman, who just then stretched 
herself and delicately licked her lips as in the very sensual- 
ity of sloth, my mind swiftly compared the scene with the 


OLALLA. 


147 


cold chamber looking northward on the mountains, where 
the daughter dwelt. 

That same afternoon, as I sat upon my knoll, I saw the* 
padre enter the gates of the residencia. The revelation of 
the daughter's character had struck home to my fancy, 
and almost blotted out the horrors of the night before; but 
at sight of this worthy man the memory revived. I de- 
scended, then, from the knoll, and making a circuit among 
the woods, posted myself by the wayside to await his pass- 
age. As soon as he appeared I stepped forth and intro- 
duced myself as the lodger of the residencia. He had a 
very strong, honest countenance, on which it was easy to 
read the mingled emotions with which he regarded me, as 
a foreigner, a heretic, and yet one who had been wounded 
for the good cause. Of the family at the residencia he 
spoke with reserve, and yet with respect. I mentioned that 
I had not yet seen the daughter, whereupon he remarked 
that that was as it should be, and looked at me a little 
askance. Lastly, I plucked up courage to refer to the cries, 
that had disturbed me in the night. He heard me out in 
silence, and then stopped and partly turned about, as 
though to mark beyond doubt that he was dismissing me. 

“ Do you take tobacco powder?" said he, offering his 
snuff-box; and then, when I had refused, “ I am an old 
man," he added, ‘‘and I may be allowed to remind you 
that you are a guest." 

“I have, then, your authority," I returned, firmly 
enough, although I flushed at the implied reproof, “ to let 
things take their course, and not to interfere?" 

He said “yes," and with a somewhat uneasy salute 
turned and left me where I was. But he had done two 
things: he had set my conscience at rest, and he bad awak- 
ened my delicacy. I made a great effort, once more dis- 
missed the recollections of the night, and fell once more to 
brooding on my saintly poetess. At the same time, I could 
not quite forget that I had been locked in, and that night 


148 


OLALLA. 


when Felipe brought me my supper I attacked him warily 
•on both points of interest. 

“ I never see your sister,” said I, casually. 

“ Oh, no,” said he; “ she is a good, good girl,” and his 
mind instantly veered to something else. 

“ Your sister is pious, I suppose?” I asked, in the next 
pause. 

“ Oh,” he cried, joining his hands with extreme fervor; 
“ a saint; it is she that keeps me*up.” 

“ You are very fortunate,” said I, “ for the most of us, 
I am afraid, and myself among the number, are better at 
going down.” 

“ Senor,” said Felipe, earnestly, “ I would not say that. 
You should not tempt your angel. If one goes down, where 
is he to stop?” 

“Why, Felipe,” said I, “I had no guess you were a 
preacher, and I may say a good one; but I suppose that is 
your sister’s doing?” 

He nodded at me with round eyes. 

“ Well, then,” I continued, “ she has doubtless reproved 
you for your sin of cruelty?” 

“ Twelve times!” he cried; for this was the phrase by 
which the odd creature expressed the sense of frequency. 

.And I told her you had done so — I remembered that,” he 
added, proudly— “ and she was pleased.” 

“ Then, Felipe,” said I, “ what were those cries that 
I heard last night? for surely they were cries of some creat- 
ure in suffering. ” 

“ The wind,” returned Felipe, looking in the fire. 

I took his hand in mine, at which, thinking it to be a 
caress, he smiled with a brightness of pleasure that came 
near disarming my resolve. But I trod the weakness down. 

“ The wind,” I repeated; “ and yet I think it was this 
Band,” holding it up, “ that had first locked me in.” The 
lad shook visibly, but answered never a word. “ Well,” 
said I, “I am a stranger and a guest. It is not my part 


OLALLA. 


149 


^either to meddle or to judge in your affairs; in these you 
shall take your sister's counsel, which I can not doubt to 
be excellent. But in so far as concerns my own I will be 
no man's prisoner, and I demand that key." Half an hour 
later my door was suddenly thrown open, and the key tossed 
ringing on the floor. 

A day or two after I came in from a walk a little before 
the point of noon. The senora was lying lapped in slum- 
ber on the threshold of the recess; the pigeons dozed below 
the eaves like snow-drifts; the house was under a deep spell 
of noontide quiet; and only a wandering and gentle wind 
from the mountain stole round the galleries, rustled among 
the pomegranates, and pleasantly stirred the shadows. 
Something in the stillness moved me to imitation, and I 
went very lightly across the court and up the marble stair- 
case. My foot was on the topmost round, when a door 
opened, and I found myself face to face with Olalla. Sur- 
prise transfixed me; her loveliness struck to my heart; she 
glowed in the deep shadow of the gallery, a gem of color; 
her eyes took hold upon mine and clung there, and bound 
us together like the joining of hands; and the moments we 
.thus stood face to face, drinking each other in, were sacra- 
mental and the wedding of souls. I know not how long it 
was before I awoke out of a deep trance, and, hastily bow- 
ing, passed on into the upper stair. She did not move, 
but followed me with her great, thirsting eyes; and as I 
passed out of sight it seemed to me as if she paled and 
faded. 

In my own room, I opened the window and looked out, 
and could not think what change had come upon that 
.austere field of mountains that it should thus sing and shine 
under the lofty heaven. I had seen her — Olalla! And the 
stone crags answered, Olalla! and the dumb, unfathomable 
azure answered, Olalla! The pale saint of my dreams had 
Yanished forever; and in her place I beheld this maiden on 
whom God had lavished the richest colors and the most ex- 


150 


OLALLA. 


uberant energies of life, whom he had made active as a 
deer, slender as a reed, and in whose great eyes he had 
lighted the torches of the soul. The thrill of her young- 
life, strung like a wild animaTs, had entered into me; th& 
force of soul that had looked out from her eyes had con- 
quered mine, mantled about my heart and sprung to my 
lips in singing. She passed through my veins; she was 
one with me. 

I will not say that this enthusiasm declined; rather my 
soul held out in its ecstasy as in a strong castle, and was 
there besieged by cold and sorrowful considerations. I 
could not doubt but that I loved her at first sight, and al- 
ready with a quivering ardor that was strange to my ex- 
perience. What then was to follow? She was the child of 
an afflicted house, the senora's daughter, the sister of Fe- 
lipe; she bore it even in her beauty. She had the lightness 
and swiftness of the one, swift as an arrow, light as dew; 
like the other, she shone on the pale background of the 
world with the brilliancy of flowers. I could not call by 
the name of brother that half-witted lad, nor by the name? 
of mother that immovable and lovely thing of flesh, whose 
silly eyes and perpetual simper now recurred to my mind 
like something hateful. And if I could not marry, what 
then? She was helplessly unprotected; her eyes, in that 
single and long glance which had been all our intercourse, 
had confessed a weakness equal to my own; but in my 
heart I knew her for the student of the cold northern cham- 
ber, and the writer of the sorrowful lines; and this was a 
knowledge to disarm a brute. To flee was more than I 
could find courage for; but I registered a vow of unsleep- 
ing circumspection. 

As I turned from the window, my eyes alighted on the 
portrait. It had fallen dead, like a candle after sunrise; it 
followed me with eyes of paint. I knew it to be like, and 
marveled at the tenacity of type in that declining race; but 
the likeness was swallowed up in difference. I remembered 


OLALLA. 


151 


how it had seemed to me a thing unapproachable in the 
life, a creature rather of the painter’s craft than of the 
modesty of nature, and 1 marveled at the thought, and ex- 
ulted in the image of Olalla. Beauty I had seen before, 
and not been charmed, and I had been often drawn to 
women, who were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla 
all that I desired and had not dared to imagine was united. 

I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached and 
my eyes longed for her, as men long for morning. But 
the day after, when I returned, about my usual hour, she 
was once more on the gallery, and our looks once more 
met and embraced. I would have spoken, I would have 
drawn near to her; but strongly as she plucked at my 
Beart, drawing me like a magnet, something yet more im- 
perious withheld me; and I could only bow and pass by; 
and she, leaving my salutation unanswered, only followed 
me with her noble eyes. 

I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the traits 
in memory it seemed as if I read her very heart. She was 
dressed with something of her mother’s coquetry, and love 
of positive color. Her robe, which I knew she must have 
made with her own hands, clung about her with a cunning 
grace. After the fashion of that country, besides, her 
bodice stood open in the middle, in a long slit, and here, in 
spite of the poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by 
a ribbon, lay on her brown bosom. These were proofs, 
had any been needed, of her inborn delight in life and her 
own loveliness. On the other hand, in her eyes that hung 
upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of passion and 
sadness, lights of poetry and hope, blacknesses of despair, 
and thoughts that were above the earth. It was a lovely 
body, but the inmate, the soul, was more than worthy of 
that lodging. Should I leave this incomparable flower to 
wither unseen on these rough mountains? Should I de- 
spise the great gift offered me in the eloquent silence of 
her eyes? Here was a soul immured; should I not burst 


152 


OLALLA. 


its prison? All side considerations fell off from me; were 
she the child of Herod I swore I should make her mine; 
and that very evening I set myself, with a miugled sense 
of treachery and disgrace, to captivate the brother. Per- 
haps I read him with more favorable eyes, perhaps the 
thought of his sister always summoned up the better quali- 
ties of that imperfect soul; but he had never seemed to me 
so amiable, and his very likeness to Olalla, while it an- 
noyed, yet softened me. 

A third day passed in vain — an empty desert of hours. 
I would not lose a chance, and loitered all afternoon in the 
court where (to give myself a countenance) I spoke more 
than usual with the senora. 'God knows it was with a most 
tender and sincere interest that I now studied her; and 
even as for Felipe, so now for the mother, I was conscious 
of a growing warmth of toleration. And yet I wondered^ 
Even while I spoke with her, she would doze oil into a 
little sleep, and presently awake again without embarrass- 
ment; and this composure staggered me. And again, as I 
marked her make infinitesimal changes in her posture, 
savoring and lingering on the bodily pleasure of the mo- 
ment, I was driven to wonder at this depth of passive sen- 
suality. She lived in her body; and her consciousness was: 
all sunk into and disseminated through her members,, 
where it luxuriously dwelt. Lastly, I could not grow ac- 
customed to her eyes. Each time she turned on me those 
great beautiful and meaningless orbs, wide open to the 
day, but closed against human inquiry — each time I had 
occasion to observe the lively changes of her pupils which 
expanded and contracted in a breath— I know not what it 
was came over me, I can find no name for the mingled 
feeling of disappointment, annoyance, and distaste that 
jarred along my nerves. I tried her on a variety of sub- 
jects, equally in vain; and at last led the talk to her 
daughter. But even there she proved indifferent; said she 
was pretty, which (as with children) was her highest word 


OLALLA. 


153 


of commendation, but was plainly incapable of any higher 
thought; and when I remarked that Olalla seemed silent, 
merely yawned in my face and replied that speech was of 
no great use when you had nothing to say. “ People 
speak much, very much,” she added, looking at me with 
expanded pupils; and then again yawned, and again showed 
me a mouth that was as dainty as a toy. This time I took 
the hint, and, leaving her to her repose, went up into my 
own chamber to sit by the open window, looking on the 
hills and not beholding them, sunk in lustrous and deep 
dreams, and hearkening in fancy to the note of a voice 
that I had never heard. 

I awoke on the fifth morning with a brightness of antici- 
pation that seemed to challenge fate. I was sure of my- 
self, light of heart and foot, and resolved To put my love 
incontinently to the touch of knowledge. It should lie no 
longer under the bonds of silence, a dumb thing, living by 
the eye only, like the love of beasts; but should now put 
on the spirit, and enter upon the joys of the complete hu- 
man intimacy. I thought of it with wild hopes, like a 
voyager to El Dorado; into that unknown and lovely 
country of her soul, I no longer trembled to adventure. 
Yet when I did indeed encounter her, the same force of 
passion descended on me and at once submerged my mind; 
speech seemed to drop away from me like a childish habit; 
and I but drew near to her as the giddy man draws near to 
the margin of a gulf. She drew back from me a little as I 
came; but her eyes did not waver from mine, and these 
lured me forward. At last, when I was already within 
reach of her, I stopped. Words were denied me; if I ad- 
vanced I could but clasp her to my heart in silence; and all 
that was sane in me, all that was still unconquered, re- 
volted against the thought of such an accost. So we stood 
for a second, all our life in our eyes,' exchanging salvos of 
attraction and yet each resisting; and then, with a great 
effort of the will, and conscious at the same time of a sud- 


154 


OLALLA. 


den bitterness of disappointment, I turned and went away 
in the same silence. 

What power lay upon me that I could not speak? And 
she, why was she also silent? Why did she draw away be- 
fore me dumbly, with fascinated eyes? Was this love? or 
was it a mere brute attraction, mindless and inevitable,, 
like that of the magnet for the steel? We had never 
spoken, we were wholly strangers; and yet an influence, 
strong as the grasp of a giant, swept us silently together. 
On my side, it filled me with impatience; and yet I was 
sure that she was worthy; I had seen her books, read her 
verses, and thus, in a sense, divined the soul of my mis- 
tress. But on her side, it struck me almost cold. Of me,, 
she knew nothing but my bodily favor; she was drawn to 
me as stones fall to earth; the laws that rule the earth con- 
ducted her, unconsenting, to my arms; and I drew back at 
the thought of such a bridal, and began to be jealous for 
myself. It was not thus that I desired to be loved. And 
then I began to fall into a great pity for the girl herself. 

I thought how sharp must be her mortification, that she, 
the student, the recluse, Felipe’s saintly monitress, should 
have thus confessed an overweening weakness for a mam 
with whom she had never exchanged a word. And at the 
coming of pity, all other thoughts were swallowed up; and 
I longed only to find and console and reassure her; to tell 
her how wholly her love was returned on my side, and how 
her choice, even if blindly made, was not unworthy. 

The next day it was glorious weather; depth upon depth 
of blue overcanopied the mountains; the sun shone wide; 
and the wind in the trees and the many falling torrents in 
the mountains filled the air with delicate and haunting 
music. Yet I was prostrated with sadness. My heart wept 
for the sight of Olalla, as a child weeps for its mother. I 
sat down on a bowlder on the verge of the low cliffs that 
bound the plateau to the north. Thence I looked down 
into the wooded valley of a stream, where no foot came. In 


OLALLA. 


155 


the mood I was in, it was even touching to behold the place 
nntenanted; it lacked Olalla; and I thought of the delight 
mid glory of a life passed wholly with her in that strong 
air, and among these rugged and lovely surroundings, at 
first with a whimpering sentiment, and then again with 
such a fiery joy that I seemed to grow in strength and 
stature, like a Samson. 

And then suddenly I was aware of Olalla drawing near. 
She appeared out of a grove of cork-trees, and came 
straight toward me; and I stood up and waited. She 
seemed in her walking a creature of such life and fire and 
lightness as amazed me; yet she came quietly and slowly. 
Her energy was in the slowness; but for inimitable 
strength, I felt she would have run, she would have flown 
to me. Still, as she approached, she kept her eyes lowered 
to the ground; and when she had drawn quite near, it was 
without one glance that she addressed me. At the first 
note of her voice I started. It was for this I had been 
waiting; this was the last test of my love. And lo, her 
enunciation was precise and clear, not lisping and incom- 
plete like that of her family; and the voice, though deeper 
than usual with women, was still both youthful and wom- 
anly. She spoke in a rich chord; golden contralto strains 
mingled with hoarseness, as thg red threads were mingled 
with the brown among her tresses. It was not only a voice 
that spoke to my heart directly; but it spoke to me of her. 
And yet her words immediately plunged me back upon de- 
spair. 

“ You will go away,” she said, “ to-day.” 

Her example broke the bonds of my speech; I felt as 
lightened of a weight, or as if a spell had been dissolved. 
I know not in what words I answered; but, standing before 
her on the cliffs, I poured out the whole ardor of my love, 
telling her that I lived upon the thought of her, slept only 
to dream of her loveliness, and would gladly forswear my 
country, my language, and my friends, to live forever by 


156 


OLALLA. 


her side. And then, strongly commanding myself, I 
changed the note; I reassured, I comforted her; I told her 
I had divined in her a pious and heroic spirit, with which I 
was worthy to sympathize, and which I longed to share and 
lighten. “ Nature,” I told her, “ was the voice of God, 
which men disobey at peril; and if we were thus dumbly 
drawn together, ay, even as by a miracle of loye, it must 
imply a divine fitness in our souls; we must be made,” I 
said — “ made for one another. We should be mad 
rebels,” I cried out — “ mad rebels against God, not to 
obey this instinct.” 

She shook her head. “ You will go to-day,” she re- 
peated, and then with a gesture, and in a sudden, sharp 
note — “ no, not to-day,” she cried, 44 to-morrow.” 

But at this sign of relenting, power came in upon me in 
a tide. I stretched out my arms and called upon her 
name; and she leaped to me and clung to me. The hills 
rocked about us, the earth quailed; a shock as of a blow 
went through me and left me blind ,and dizzy. And the 
next moment she had thrust .me back, broken rudely from 
my arms, and fled with the speed of a deer among the- 
cork-trees. 

I stood and shouted to the mountains; I turned and 
went back toward the residencia, walking upon air. She- 
sent me away, and yet I had but to call upon her name 
and she came to me. These were but the weaknesses of 
girls, from which even she, the strongest of her sex, was 
not exempted. Go? Not I, Olalla — oh, not I, Olalla, my 
Olalla! A bird sung near by; and in that season, birds 
were rare. It bade me be of good cheer. And once more 
the whole countenance of nature, from the ponderous and 
stable mountains down to the lightest leaf and the smallest 
darting fly in the shadow of the groves, began to stir before 
me and to put on the lineaments of life and wear a face of 
awful joy. The sunshine struck upon the hills, strong as 
a hammer on the anvil, and the hills shook; the earth, un- 


OLALLA. 


157 


der that vigorous insolation, yielded up heady scents; the 
woods smoldered in the blaze. I felt the thrill of travail 
and delight run through the earth. Something elemental, 
something rude, violent and savage, in the love that sung 
in my heart, was like a key to nature’s secrets; and the 
very stones that rattled under my feet appeared alive and 
friendly. Olalla! Her touch had quickened, and re- 
newed, and strung me up to the old pitch of concert with 
the rugged earth, to a swelling of the soul that men learn 
to forget in their polite assemblies. Love burned in me 
like rage; tenderness waxed fierce; I hated, I adored, I 
pitied, I revered her with ecstasy. She seemed the link, 
that bound me in with dead things on the one hand, and 
with our pure and pitying God upon the other; a thing 
brutal and divine, and akin at once to the innocence and to 
the unbridled forces of the earth. 

My head thus reeling, I came into the court-yard of the 
residencia, and the sight of the mother struck me like a, 
revelation. She sat there, all sloth and contentment, 
blinking under the strong sunshine, branded with a passive 
enjoyment, a creature set quite apart, before whom my 
ardor fell away like a thing ashamed. I stopped a mo- 
ment, and, commanding such shaken tones as I was able, 
said a word or two. She looked at me with her unfathoma- 
ble kindness; her voice in reply sounded vaguely out of the 
realm of peace in which she slumbered, and there Jell on 
my mind, for the first time, a sense of respect for one so 
uniformly innocent and happy, and I passed on in a kind 
of wonder at myself, that I should be so much disquieted. 

On my table there lay a piece of the same yellow paper I 
had seen in the north room; it was written on with pencil 
in the same hand, Olalla ’s hand, and I picked it up with a 
sudden sinking of alarm, and read, ’ “ If you have any 
kindness for Olalla, if you have any chivalry for a creature 
sorely wrought, go from here to-day; in pity, in honor, for 
the sake of Him who died, I supplicate that you shall go. ,5> 


158 


OLALLA. 


I looked at this awhile in mere stupidity, then I began to 
awaken to a weariness and horror of life; the sunshine 
darkened outside on the bare hills, and I began to shake 
like a man in terror. The vacancy thus suddenly opened 
in my life unmanned me like a physical void. It was not 
my heart, it was not my happiness, it was life itself that 
was involved. I could not lose her. I said so, and stood 
repeating it. And then, like one in a dream, I moved to 
the window, put forth my hand to open the casement, and 
thrust it through the pane. The blood spurted from my 
wrist; and with an instantaneous quietude and command of 
inyself, I pressed my thumb on the little leaping fountain, 
and reflected what to do. In that empty room there was 
nothing to my purpose; I felt, besides, that I required 
assistance. There shot into my mind a hope that Olalla 
herself might be my helper, and I turned and went down- 
stairs, still keeping my thumb upon the wound. 

There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, and I ad- 
dressed myself to the recess, whither the senora had now 
drawn quite back and sat dozing close before the fire, for 
no degree of heat appeared too much for her. 

“ Pardon me/’ said I, “ if I disturb you, but J must 
apply to you for help. ” 

She looked up sleepily and asked me what it was, and 
with the very words, I thought she drew in her breath with 
a widening of the nostrils and seemed to come suddenly 
and fully alive. 

“ I have cut myself,” I said, “ and rather badly. See!” 
And I held out my two hands from which the blood was 
oozing and dripping. 

Her great eyes opened wide, the pupils shrunk into 
points; a veil seemed to fall from her face, and leave it 
sharply expressive and yet inscrutable. And as I still 
stood, marveling a little at her disturbance, she came swift- 
ly up' to me, and stooped and caught me by the hand; and 
the next moment my hand was at her mouth, and she had 


OLALLA. 


159 

bitten me to the bone. The pang of the bite, the sudden 
spurting of blood, and the monstrous horror of the act,, 
flashed through me all in one, and I beat her back ; and 
she sprung at me again and again, with bestial cries, cries 
that I recognized, such cries as had awakened me on the 
night of the high wind. Her strength was like that of 
madness; mine was rapidly ebbing with the loss of blood; 
my mind besides was whirling with the abhorrent strange- 
ness of the onslaught, and I was already forced against the 
wall, when Ollala ran betwixt us, and Felipe, following at 
a bound, pinned down his mother on the floor. 

A trance-like weakness fell upon me; I saw, heard, and 
felt, but I was incapable of movement. I heard the strug- 
gle roll to and fro upon the floor, the yells of that cata- 
mount ringing up to heaven as she strove to reach me. I 
felt Olalla clasp me in her arms, her hair falling on my 
face, and, with the strength of a man, raise and half drag, 
half carry me upstairs into my own room, where she cast 
me down upon the bed. Then I saw her hasten to the 
door and lock it, and stand an instant listening to the sav- 
age cries that shook the residencia. And then, swift and 
light as a thought, she was again beside me, binding up my 
hand, laying it in her bosom, moaning and mourning over 
it with dove-like sounds. They were not words that came 
to her, they were sounds more beautiful than speech, in- 
finitely touching, infinitely tender; and yet as I lay there,, 
a thought stung to my heart, a thought wounded me like a 
sword, a thought, like a worm in a flower, profaned the 
holiness of my love. Yes, they were beautiful sounds, and 
they were inspired by human tenderness; but was their 
beauty human? 

All day I lay there. For a long time the cries of that 
nameless female thing, as she struggled with her half- 
witted whelp, resounded through the house, and pierced me 
with despairing sorrow and disgust. They were the death- 
cry of my love; my love was murdered; it was not only 


160 


OLALLA. 


dead, but an offense to me; and yet, think as I pleased, 
feel as I must, it still swelled within me like a storm of 
sweetness, and my heart melted at her looks and touch. 
This horror that had sprung out, this doubt upon Olalla, 
this savage and bestial strain that ran not only through the 
whole behavior of her family, but found a jfiace in the very 
foundations and story of our love — though it appalled, 
though it shocked and sickened me, was yet not of power 
to break the knot of my infatuation. 

When the cries had ceased, there came the scraping at 
the door, by which T knew Felipe was without; and Olalla 
went and spoke to him — I know not what. With that ex- 
ception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by my 
bed and fervently praying, now sitting with her eyes upon 
mine. So then, for these six hours 1 drank in her beauty, 
and silently perused the story in her face. I saw the golden 
coin hover on her breaths; I saw her eyes darken and 
brighten, and still speak no language but that of an un- 
fathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through 
the robe, the lines of the faultless body. Night came at 
last, and in the growing darkness of the chamber, the sight 
of her slowly melted; but even then the touch of her 
smooth hand lingered in mine and talked with me. To lie 
thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the be- 
loved, is to reawake to love from whatever shock of disillu- 
sion. I reasoned with myself; and I shut my eyes on hor- 
rors, and again I was very bold to accept the worst. What 
mattered it, if that imperious sentiment survived; if her 
eyes still beckoned and attached me; if now, even as be- 
fore, every fiber of my dull body yearned and turned to 
her: Late on in the night some strength revived in me, 
and I spoke: — 

“Olalla,” I said, “nothing matters; I ask nothing; I 
am content; I love you.” 

She knelt down awhile and prayed, and I devoutly re- 
spected her devotions. The moon had begun to shine in 


OLALLA. 


161 


tipon one side of each of the three windows, and make a 
misty clearness in the room, by which I saw her indistinct- 
ly. When she re-arose she made the sign of the cross. 

“ It is for me to speak,” she said, “ and for you to 
listen. I know; you can but guess. I prayed, how I 
prayed for you to leave this place. I begged it of you, 
and I know you would have granted me even this; or if 
not, oh, let me think so!” 

“ I love you,” I said. 

“And yet you have lived in the world,” she said; after 
a pause, “ you are a man and wise; and I am but a child. 
iForgive me, if I seem to teach, who am as ignorant as the 
frees of the mountain; but those who learn much do but 
skim the face of knowledge; they seize the laws, they con- 
ceive the dignity of the design — the horror of the living 
fact fades from their memory. It is we who sit at home 
with evil who remember, T think, and are warned and 
pity. Go, rather, go now, and keep me in mind. So I 
shall have a life in the cherished places of your memory : a 
life as much my own, as that which I lead in this body. ” 

“I love you,” I said once more; and reaching out my 
>weak hand, took hers, and carried it to my lips, and kissed 
it. N" or did she resist, but winced a little; and I could see 
her look upon me with a frown that was not unkindly, 
only sad and baffled. And then it seemed she made a call 
upon her resolution; plucked my hand toward her, herself 
at the same time leaning somewhat forward, and laid it on 
the beating of her heart. “ There,” she cried, “ you feel 
fhe very footfall of my life. It only moves for you; it is 
yours. But is it even mine? It is mine indeed to offer 
you, as I might take the coin from my neck, as I might 
break a live branch from a tree, and give it you. And yet 
;not mine.! I dwell, or I think I dwell (if I exist at all), 
somewhere apart, an impotent prisoner, and carried about 
.and deafened by a mob that I disown. This capsule, such 
jas throbs against the sides of animals, knows you at a touch 


162 


OLALLA. 


for its master; ay, it loves you! But my soul, does mjr 
soul? I think not; I know not, fearing to ask. Yet when 
you spoke to me your words were of the soul; it is of the 
soul that you ask — it is only from the soul that you would 
take me.” 

“ Olalla,” I said, “ the soul and the body are one, and 
mostly so in love. What the body chooses, the soul loves; 
where the body clings, the soul cleaves; body for body, soul 
for soul, they come together at God’s signal; and the lower 
part (if we can call aught low) is only the footstool and 
foundation of the highest.” 

“ Have you,” she said, “ seen the portraits in the house- 
of my fathers? Have you looked at my mother or at 
Felipe? Have your eyes ever rested on that picture that 
hangs by your bed? She who sat for it died ages ago; and 
she did evil in her life. But look again: there is my hand 
to the least line, there are my eyes and my hair. What is 
mine, then, and what am I? If not a curve in this poor 
body of mine (which you love, and for the sake of which 
you dotingly dream that you love me), not a gesture that I 
can frame, not a tone of my voice, not any look from my* 
eyes, no, not even now when I speak to him I love, but 
has belonged to others? Others, ages dead, have wooed 
other men with my eyes; other men have heard the plead- 
ing of the same voice that now sounds in your ears. The- 
hands of the dead are in my bosom; they move me, they 
pluck me, they guide me; I am a puppet at their com- 
mand; and I but re-inform features and attributes that 
have long been laid aside from evil in the quiet of the- 
grave. Is it me you love, friend? or the race that made 
me? The girl who does not know and can not answer for 
the least portion of herself? or the stream of which she is ; 
a transitory eddy, the tree of which she is the passing 
fruit? The race exists; it is old, it is ever young, it carries 
its eternal destiny in its bosom; upon it, like waves upon 
the sea, individual succeeds to individual, mocked with a 


OLALLA. 


163 


semblance of self-control, but they are nothing. We 
speak of the soul, but the soul is in the race.” 

“You fret against, the common law,” I said. “You 
rebel against the voice of God, which He has made so win- 
ning to convince, so imperious to command. Hear it, and 
how it speaks between us! Your hand clings to mine, 
your heart leaps at my touch, the unknown elements of 
which we are compounded awake and run together at a 
look; the clay of the earth remembers its independent life 
and yearns to join us; we are drawn together as the stars 
are turned about in space, or as the tides ebb and flow, by 
things older and greater than we ourselves. ” 

“ Alas!” she said, “ what can I say to you? My fa- 
thers, eight hundred years ago, ruled all this province: they 
were wise, great, cunning, and cruel; they were a picked 
race of the Spanish; their flags led in war; the king called 
them his cousin; the people, when the rope was slung for 
them or when they returned and found their hovels smok- 
ing, blasphemed their name. Presently a change began. 
Man has risen; if he has sprung from the brutes, he can 
descend again to the same level. The breath of weariness 
blew on their humanity and the cords relaxed; they began 
to go down; their minds fell on sleep, their passions awoke 
in gusts, heady and senseless like the wind in the gutters 
of the mountains; beauty was still handed down, but no 
longer the guiding wit nor the human heart; the seed 
passed on, it was wrapped in flesh, the fle^li covered the 
bones, but they were the bones and the flesh of brutes, and 
their mind was as the mind of flies. I speak to you as I 
dare; but you have seen for yourself how the wheel has 
gone backward with my doomed race. I stand, as it were, 
upon a little rising ground in this desperate descent, and 
see both before and behind, both what we have lost and to 
what we are condemned to go further downward. And 
shall I — I that dwell apart in the house of the dead, my 
body, loathing its ways — shall I repeat the spell? Shall I 


164 


OLALLA. 


bind another spirit, reluctant as my own, into this be- 
witched and tempest- broken tenement that I now sutler in? 
Shall I hand down this cursed vessel of humanity, charge 
it with fresh life as with fresh poison, and dash it r like a- 
fire, in the faces of posterity? But my vow has been given; 
the race shall cease from oif the earth. At this hour my 
brother is making ready; his foot will soon be on the stair;* 
and you will go with him and pass out of my sight forever. 
Think of me sometimes as one to whom the lesson of life' 
was very harshly told, but who heard it with courage; as* 
one who loved you indeed, but who hated herself so deeply 
that her love was hateful to her; as one who sent you away 
and yet would have longed to keep you forever; who had 
no dearer hope than to forget you, and no greater fear than 
to be forgotten . 99 

She had drawn toward the door as she spoke, her rich 
voice sounding softer and further away; and with the last 
word she was gone, and I lay alone in the moonlit 
chamber. What I might have done had not I lain bound 
by my extreme weakness, I know not; but as it was there 
fell upon me a great and blank despair. It was not long 
before there shone in at the door the ruddy glimmer of a- 
lantern, and Felipe coming, charged me without a word 
upon his shoulders, and carried me down to the great gate,, 
where the cart was waiting. In the moonlight the hills, 
stood out sharply, as if they were of cardboard; on the- 
glimmering surface of the plateau, and from among the? 
low trees which swung together and sparkled in the wind,, 
the great black cube of the residencia stood out bulkily, its 
mass only broken by three dimly lighted windows in the 
northern front above the gate. They were Olalla's win- 
dows, and as the cart jolted onward I kept my eyes fixed 
upon them till, where the road dipped into a valley, they 
were lost to my view forever. Felipe walked in silence 
beside the shafts, but from time to time he would check 
the mule and seem to look back upon me; and at length 


OLALLA. 


165 


drew quite near and laid his hand upon my head. There- 
was such kindness in the touch, and such a simplicity, as 
of the brutes, that tears broke from me like the bursting 
of an artery. 

“ Felipe,” I said, " take me where they will ask no 
questions. ” 

He said never a word, but he turned his mule about, end 
for end, retraced some part of the way we had gone, and, 
striking into another path, led me to the mountain village, 
which was, as we say in Scotland, the kirkton of that thinly^ 
peopled district. Some broken memories dwell in my mind: 
of the day breaking over the plain, of the cart stopping, of 
arms that helped me down, of a bare room into which I 
was carried, and of a swoon that fell upon me like sleep. 

The next day and the days following, the old priest was; 
often at my side with his snuff-box and prayer-book, and 
after awhile, when I began to pick up strength, he told me* 
that I was now on a fair way to recovery, and must as soon 
as possible hurry my departure; whereupon, without nam- 
ing any reason, he took snuff and looked at me sideways.. 
I did not affect ignorance; I knew he must have seen 
Olalla. " Sir,” said I, " you know that I do not ask in 
wantonness. What of that family?" 

He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed a; 
declining race, and that they were very poor and had been 
much neglected. 

"But she has not,” I said. "Thanks, doubtless, tn 
yourself, she is instructed and wise beyond the use of' 
women. ” 

" Yes,” he said; " the senorita is well informed. But 
the family has been neglected.” 

" The mother?” I queried. 

" Yes, the mother too,” said the padre, taking snufL 
ts But Felipe is a well-intentioned lad.” 

" The mother is odd?” I asked. 

" Very odd,” replied the priest. 


166 


OLA L LA. 


“ I think, sir, we beat about the bush/* said I. “ You 
must know more of my affairs than you allow. You must 
know my curiosity to be justified on many grounds. Will 
you not be frank with me?” 

“My son,” said the old gentleman, “I will be very 
frank with you on matters within my competence; on those 
of which I know nothing it does not require much discre- 
tion to be silent. I will not fence with you, I take your 
meaning perfectly; and what can I say, but that we are all 
In God’s hands, and that His ways are not as our ways? I 
have even advised with my superiors in the Church, but 
they, too, were dumb. It is a great mystery.” 

“ Is she mad?” I asked. 

“ I will answer you according to my belief. She is not,” 
returned the padre, “or she was not. When she was 
young — God help me, I fear I neglected that wild lamb — 
she was surely sane; and yet, although it did not run to 
such heights, the same strain was already notable; it had 
been so before her in her father, ay, and before him, and 
this inclined me, perhaps, to think too lightly of it. But 
these things go on growing, not only in the individual but 
In the race. ” 

“ AVhen she was young,” I began, and my voice failed 
me for a moment, and it was only with a great effort that I 
was able to add, “ was she like Olalla?” 

“ Now God forbid!” exclaimed the padre. “ God for- 
bid that any man should think so slightingly of my favorite 
penitent. No, no; the senorita (but for her beauty, which 
I wish most honestly she had less of) has not a hair’s re- 
semblance to what her mother was at the same age. I could 
not bear to have you think so; though, Heaven knows, it 
were, perhaps, better that you should. ’ ’ 

At this, I raised myself in bed, and opened my heart to 
the old man; telling him of our love and of her decision, 
owning my own horrors, my own passing fancies, but tell- 
ing him that these were at an end; and with something 


OLALLA. 


167 

more than a purely formal submission, appealing to his 
judgment. 

He heard me very patiently and without surprise; and 
when I had done, he sat for some time silent. Then he 
began: “The church,” and instantly broke off again to> 
apologize. “ I had forgotten, my child, that you were not 
a Christian,” said he. “ And indeed, upon a point so 
highly unusual, even the church can scarce be said to have 
decided. But would you have my opinion: The senorita 
is, in a matter of this kind, the best judge; I would accept 
her judgment.” 

On the back of that he went away, nor was he thence- 
forward so assiduous in his visits; indeed, even when I 
began to get about again, he plainly feared and deprecated 
my society, not as in distaste but much as a man might be 
disposed to flee from the riddling sphinx. The villagers,, 
too, avoided me; they were unwilling to be my guides upon 
the mountain. I thought they looked at me askance, and 
I made sure that the more superstitious crossed themselves 
on my approach. At first I set this down to my heretical 
opinions; but it began at length to dawn upon me that if 
I was thus redoubted it was because I had stayed at the resi- 
dencia. All men despise the savage notions of such pleas- 
antry; and yet I was conscious of a chill shadow that seemed 
to fall and dwell upon my love. It did not conquer, but I 
may not deny that it restrained my ardor. 

Some miles westward of the village there was a gap in the 
sierra, from which the eye plunged direct upon the resi- 
dencia; and thither it became my daily habit to repair. A 
wood crowned the summit; and just where the pathway 
issued from its fringes, it was overhung by a considerable- 
shelf of rock, and that, in its turn, was surmounted by a 
crucifix of the size of life and more than usually painful in 
design. This was my perch; thence, day after day, I looked 
down upon the plateau, and the great old house, and could 
gee Felipe, no bigger than a fly, going to and fro about the 


168 


OLALLA. 


garden. Sometimes mists would draw across the view, and 
be broken up again by mountain winds; sometimes the 
plain slumbered below me in unbroken sunshine; it would 
sometimes be all blotted out by rain. This distant post, 
these interrupted sights of the place where my life had been 
so strangely changed suited the indecision of my humor. I 
passed whole days there, debating with myself the various 
elements of our position; now leaning to the suggestions 
of love, now giving an ear to prudence, and in the end halt- 
ing irresolute between the two. 

One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came by that 
way a somewhat gaunt peasant wrapped in a mantle. He 
was a stranger, and plainly did not know me even by re- 
pute; for, instead of keeping the other side, he drew near 
and sat down beside me, and we had soon fallen in talk. 
Among other things he told me he had been a muleteer, 
and in former years had much frequented these mountains; 
later on, he had followed the army with his mules, had 
realized a competence, and was now living retired with his 
iamily. 

“ Do you know that house?” I inquired, at last, point- 
ing to the residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that 
kept me from the thought of Olalla. 

He looked at me darkly and crossed himself. 

“ Too well,” he said, “ it was there that one of my com- 
rades sold himself to Satan; the Virgin shield us from 
temptations! He has paid the price; he is now burning in 
the reddest place in hell!” 

A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and pres- 
ently the man resumed, as if to himself. “ Yes,” he said, 
“ oh, yes, I know it. I have passed its doors. There was 
snow upon the pass, the wind was driving it; sure enough 
there was death that night upon the mountains, but there 
was worse beside the hearth. I took him by the arm, 
senor, and dragged him to the gate; I conjured him, by all 
Tie loved and respected, to go forth with me; I went on my 


OLALLA. 


169 > 


knees before him in the snow; and I could see he was moved 
by my entreaty. And just then she came out on the gal- 
lery, and called him by his name; and he turned, and there' 
was she standing with a lamp in her hand and smiling on 
him to come back. I cried out aloud to God, and threw 
my arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone. 
He had made his choice; God help us. I would pray for 
him, but to what end? there are sins that not even the 
pope can loose. ” 

“ And your friend,” I asked, “ what became of him?” 

“ Nay, God knows,” said the muleteer; “ if all be true 
that we hear, his end was like his sin, a thing to raise th& 
hair.” 

“ Ho you mean that he was killed?” I asked. 

“ Sure enough, he was killed,” returned the mam 
“ But how? Ay, how? But these are things that it is sin 
to speak of . 99 

“ The people of that house — ” I began — 

But he interrupted me with a savage outburst. “ The 
people?” he cried. * 4 What people? There are neither 
men nor women in that house of Satan's! What? have 
3 r ou lived here so long, and never heard?” And here lie 
put his mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even the 
fowls of the mountain might have overheard and been 
stricken with horror. 

What he told me was not true, nor was it even original; 
being, indeed, but a new edition, vamped up again by vil- 
lage ignorance and superstition, of stories nearly as ancient 
as the race of man. It was rather the application that ap- 
palled me. In the old days, he said, the church would 
have burned out that nest of basilisks; but the arm of the 
church was now shortened; his friend Miguel had been un- 
punished by the hands of men, and left to the more awful 
judgment of an offended God. This was wrong; but it 
should be so no more. The padre was sunk in age; he was 
even bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now 


170 


OLALLA. 


&wake to their own danger; and some day — ay, and before 
long — the smoke of that house should go up to heaven. 

He left me filled with horror and fear. Which way to turn 
I knew not; whether first to warn the padre, or to carry 
my ill-news direct to the threatened inhabitants of the resi- 
dencia. Fate was to decide for me; for, while I was still 
hesitating, I beheld the veiled figure of a woman drawing 
near to me up the pathway. No veil could deceive my pen- 
etration; by every line and every movement I recognized 
Olalla; and keeping hidden behind a corner of the rock, I 
suffered her to gain the summit. Then I came forward. 
She knew me and paused, but did not speak; I, too, re- 
mained silent; and we continued for some time to gaze upon 
*each other with a passionate sadness. 

“ I thought you had gone,” she said at length. “ It is 
all that you can do for me — to go. It is all I ever asked 
of you. And you still stay. But do you know, that every 
day heaps up the peril of death, not only on your head, but 
on ours? A report has gone about the mountain; it is 
thought you love me, and the people will not suffer it.” 

I saw she was already informed of her danger, and I re- 
joiced at it. “ Olalla/ 9 1 said, “ I am ready to go this day, 
this very hour, but not alone.” 

She stepped aside and knelt down before the crucifix to 
pray, and I stood by and looked now at her and now at the 
object of her adoration, now at the living figure of the pen- 
itent, and now at the ghastly, daubed countenance, the 
painted wounds, and the projected ribs of the image. The 
silence was only broken by the wailing of some large birds 
that circled sidelong, as if in surprise or alarm, about the 
summit of the hills. Presently Olalla rose again, turned 
toward me, raised her veil, and, still leaning with one 
hand on the shaft of the crucifix, looked upon me with a 
pale and sorrowful countenance. 

“ I have laid my hand upon the cross,” she said. “ The 
padre says you are no Christian; but look up for a moment 


OLALLA. 


171 


with my eyes, and behold the face of the Man of Sorrows. 
We are all such as He was — the inheritors of sin; we must 
all bear and expiate a past which was not ours; there is in 
all of us — ay, even in me — a sparkle of the divine. Like* 
Him, we must endure for a little while, until morning re- 
turns bringing peace. Suffer me to pass on upon my way 
alone; it is thus that I shall be least lonely, counting for 
my friend Him who is the friend of all the distressed; it is 
thus that I shall be the most happy, having taken my fare- 
well of earthly happiness, and willingly accepted sorrow for 
my portion . 99 

I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I was no 
friend to images, and despised that imitative and grimacing 
art of which it was a rude example, some sense of what the 
thing implied was carried home to my intelligence. The 
face looked down upon me with a painful and deadly con- 
traction; but the rays of a glory encircled it, and reminded 
me that the sacrifice was voluntary. It stood there, crown- 
ing the rock, as it still stands on so many highway sides, 
vainly preaching to passers-by, an emblem of sad and noble 
truths; that pleasure is not an end, but an accident; that 
pain is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to 
suffer all things and do well. I turned and went down the 
mountain in silence; and when I looked back for the last 
time before the wood closed about my path, I saw Olalla 
still leaning on the crucifix. 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD, 


CHAPTER I. 

BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK. 

They had sent for the doctor from Bonrron before six. 
About eight some villagers came round for the performance, 
and were told how matters stood. It seemed a liberty for 
a mountebank to fall ill like real people, and they made off 
again in dudgeon. By ten Mme. Tentaillon was gravely 
alarmed, and had sent down the street for Dr. Desprez. 

The doctor was at work over his manuscripts in one 
corner of the little dining-room, and his wife was asleep over 
the fire in another, when the messenger arrived. 

“ Sapristi!” said the doctor, “ you should have sent for 
me before. It was a case for hurry.* * And he followed 
the messenger as he was, in his slippers and skull-cap. 

The inn was not thirty yards away, but the messenger 
•did not stop there; he went in at one door and out by an- 
other into the court, and then led the way by a flight of 
steps beside the stable, to the loft where the mountebank 
lay sick. If Dr. Desprez were to live a thousand years, he 
would never forget his arrival in that room; for not only 
was the scene picturesque, but the moment made a date in 
his existence. We reckon our lives, I hardly know why, 
from the date of our first sorry appearance in society, as if 
from a first humiliation; for no actor can come upon the 
Btage with a worse grace. Not to go further back, which 
would be judged too curious, there are subsequently ma’j.y 

( 172 ) 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


173 


moving and decisive accidents in the lives of all, which 
would make as logical a period as this of birth. And here, 
for instance. Dr. Desprez, a man past forty, who had made 
what is called a failure in life, and was moreover married, 
found himself at a new point of departure when he opened 
the door of the loft above Tentaillon’s stable. 

It was a large place, lighted only by a single candle set 
upon the floor. The mountebank lay on his back upon a 
pallet; a large man, with a quixotic nose inflamed with 
drinking. Mme. Tentaillon stooped over him, applying a 
hot water and mustard embrocation to his feet; and on a 
chair close by sat a little fellow of eleven or twelve, with his 
feet dangling. These three were the only occupants, except 
the shadows. But the shadows were a company in them- 
selves; the extent of the room exaggerated them to a 
gigantic size, and from the low position of the candle the 
light struck upward and produced deformed foreshorten- 
ings. The mountebank’s profile was enlarged upon the 
wall in caricature, and it was strange to see his nose shorten 
and lengthen as the flame was blown about by draughts. 
As for Mme. Tentaillon, her shadow was no more than a 
gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemisphere 
of head. The chair legs were spindled out as long as stilts, 
and the boy sat perched atop of them, like a cloud, in the 
corner of the roof. 

It was the boy who took the doctor’s fancy. He had a 
great arched skull, the forehead and the hands of a 
musician, and a pair of haunting eyes. It was .not merely 
that these eyes were large, or steady, or the softest ruddy 
brown. There was a look in them, besides, which thrilled 
the doctor, and made him half uneasy. He was sure he 
had seen such a look before, and yet he could not remember 
how or where. It was as if this boy, who was quite a 
stranger to him, had the eyes of an old friend or an old 
enemy. And the boy would give him no peace; he seemed 
profoundly indifferent to what was going on, or father ab- 


174 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


stracted from it in a superior contemplation, beating gently 
with his feet against the bars of the chair, and holding his 
hands folded on his lap. But, for all that, his eyes kept 
following the doctor about the room with a thoughtful fixity 
of gaze. Desprez could not tell whether he was fascinating 
the boy, or the boy was fascinating him. He busied him- 
self over the sick man: he put questions, he felt the pulse, 
he jested, he grew a little hot and swore: and still, when- 
ever he looked round, there were the brown eyes waiting for 
his with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze. 

At last the doctor hit on the solution at a leap. He re- 
membered the look now. The little fellow, although he 
was as straight as a dart, had the eyes that go usually with 
a crooked back; he was not at all deformed, and yet a de- 
formed person seemed to be looking at you from below his- 
brows. The doctor drew a long breath, he was so much re- 
lieved to find a theory (for he loved theories) and to explain 
away his interest. 

For all that, he dispatched the invalid with unusual 
haste, and, still kneeling with one knee on the floor, turned 
a little round and looked the boy over at his leisure. Tim 
boy was not in the least put out, but looked placidly back 
at the doctor.” 

“ Is this your father?” asked Desprez. 

“ Oh, no,” returned the boy; “ my master.” 

“ Are you fond of him?” continued the doctor. 

“No, sir,” said the boy. 

Mme. Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive 
glances. 

“That is bad, my man,” resumed the latter, with a 
shade of sternness. “Every one should be fond of the 
dying, or conceal their sentiments; and your master here 
is dying. If I have watched a bird a little while stealing 
my cherries, I have a thought of disappointment when he 
flies away over my garden wall, and I see him steer for the 
forest and vanish. How much more a creature such as- 


THE TEE A SURE OF FRANCHARD. 


175 


this, so strong, so astute, so richly endowed with faculties! 
When I think that, in a few hours, the speech will be si- 
lenced, the breath extinct, and even the shadow vanished 
from the wall, I who never saw him, this lady who knew 
him only as a guest, are touched with some affection.” 

The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be re- 
flecting. 

^ You did Hot know him,” he replied at last. 44 He 
was a bad man. ” 

* s He is a little pagan,” said the landlady. 44 For that 
matter, they are all the same, these mountebanks, tum- 
blers, artists, and what not. They have no interior.” 

But the doctor was still scrutinizing the little pagan, his 
^eyebrows knotted and uplifted. 

44 What is your name?” he asked. 

44 Jean-Marie,” said the lad. 

Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes 
of excitement, and felt his head all over from an ethnolog- 
ical point of view. 

44 Celtic, Celtic!” he said. 

44 Celtic!” cried Mme. Tentaillon, who had perhaps con- 
founded the word with hydrocephalous. 44 Poor lad! is it 
dangerous?” 

44 That depends,” returned the doctor, grimly. And 
then once more addressing the boy: 44 And what do you 
do for your living, Jean-Marie V he inquired. 

44 1 tumble,” was the answer. 

44 So! Tumble ?” repeated Desprez. 44 Probably health- 
ful. I hazard the guess, Madame Tentaillon, that tum- 
bling is a healthful way of life. And have you never done 
•anything else but tumble ?” 

44 Before I learned that I used to steal,” answered Jean- 
M&rie gravely. 

44 Upon my word !” cried the doctor. 44 You are a nice 
little man for your age. Madame, when my confrere 
monies from Bourron, you will communicate my unfavora- 


176 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARH. 


ble opinion. I leave the case in his hands; but of course,, 
on any alarming symptom, above all if there should be a 
sign of a rally, do not hesitate to knock me up. I am a 
doctor no longer, I thank God; but I have been ono. 
Good night, madame. Good sleep to you, Jean-Marie. ” 


CHAPTER II. 

MORNING TALK. 

Dr. Desprez always rose early. Before the smoke arose;, 
before the first cart rattled over the bridge to the day’s 
labor in the fields, he was to be found wandering in his 
garden. Now he would pick a lunch of grapes; now 
he would eat a big pear under the trellis; now he 
would draw all sorts of fancies on the path with the 
end of his cane; now he would go down and watch the 
river running endlessly past the timber landing place at 
which he moored his boat. There was no time, he used te 
say, for making theories, like the early morning. “ I rise 
earlier than any one else in the village,” he once boasted. 
“ It is a fair consequence that I know more and wish to do 
less with my knowledge. ” 

The doctor was a connoisseur of sunrises, and loved a 
good theatrical effect to usher in the day. He had a theory 
of dew, by which he could predict the weather. Indeed;, 
most things served him to that end: the sound of the bells 
from all the neighboring villages, the smell of the forest, 
the visits and the behavior of both birds and fishes, the 
look of the plants in his garden, the disposition of 
cloud, the color of the light, and last, although not least,, 
the arsenal of meteorological instruments in a louvre- 
boarded hutch upon the lawn. Ever since he had settled 
at Gretz, he had been growing more and more into the lo- 
cal meteorologist, the unpaid champion of the local climate.. 
He thought at first there was no place so healthful in ther 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


177 


arrondissement. By the end of the second year, he protested 
there was none so wholesome in the whole department- 
And for some time before he met Jean-Marie he had been 
prepared to challenge all France and the better part of 
Europe for a rival to his chosen spot. 

Doctor/ ' he would say — “doctor is a foul word. It 
should not be used to ladies. It implies disease. I remark 
it, as a flaw in our civilization, that we have not the proper 
horror of disease. Now I, for my part, have washed my 
hands of it ; I have renounced my laureation; I am no 
doctor; I am only a worshiper of the true goddess Hygeia. 
Ah, believe me, it is she who has the cestus! And here, 
in this exiguous hamlet, has she placed her shrine: hero 
she dwells and lavishes her gifts; here I walk with her in 
the early morning, and she shows me how strong she has 
made the peasants, how fruitful she has made the fields, 
how the trees grow up tall and comely under her eyes, and 
the fishes in the river become clean and agile in her pres- 
ence. — Rheumatism !" he would cry, on some malapert in- 
terruption. “ Oh, yes, I believe we do have a little rheu- 
matism. That could hardly be avoided, you know, on a 
river. And of course the place stands a little low; and the 
meadows are marshy, there's no doubt. But, my dear sir, 
look at Bourron! Bourron stands high. Bourron is close 
to the forest; plenty of ozone there, you would say. Well, 
compared with Gretz, Bourron is a perfect shambles." 

The morning after he had been summoned to the dying 
mountebank, the doctor visited the wharf at the tail of his 
garden, and had a long look at the running water. This 
he called prayer; but whether his adorations were ad- 
dressed to the goddess Hygeia or some more orthodox 
deity, never plainly appeared. For he had uttered doubt- 
ful oracles, sometimes declaring that a river w.as the type 
of bodily health, sometimes extolling it as the great moral 
preacher, continually preaching peace, continuity, and dili- 
gence to man's tormented spirits. After he had watched a 


178 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


mile or so of the clear water running by before his eyes, 
seen a fish or two come to the surface with a gleam of sil- 
ver, and sufficiently admired the long shadows of the trees 
falling half across the river from the opposite bank, with 
patches of moving sunlight in between, he strolled once 
more up the garden and through his house into the street, 
feeling cool and renovated. 

The sound of his feet upon the causeway began the busi- 
ness of the day; for the village was still sound asleep. The 
church tower looked very airy in the sunlight; a few birds 
that turned about it seemed to swim in an atmosphere of 
more than usual rarity; and the doctor, walking in long, 
transparent shadows, filled his lungs amply, and proclaimed 
himself well contented with the morning. 

On one of the posts before Tentaillon's carriage entry h9 
espied a little dark figure perched in a meditative attitude, 
and immediately recognized Jean-Marie. 

“ Aha!” he said, stopping before him humorously, with 
a hand on either knee. “ So we rise early in the morn- 
ing, do we? It appears to me that we have all the vices of 
a philosopher. ”■ 

The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation. 

144 And how is our patient?” asked Desprez. 

It appeared the patient was about the same. 

“ And why do you rise early in the morning?” he pursued. 

Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that he 
hardly knew. 

“ You hardly know?” repeated Desprez. “ We hardly 
know anything, my man, until we try to learn. Interro- 
gate your consciousness. Come, push me this inquiry 
home. Do you like it?” 

“ Yes,” said the boy slowly; “ yes, I like it.” 

“And why do you like it?” continued the doctor. 
“(We are now pursuing the Socratic method.) Why do 
you like it?” 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


179 


“ It is quiet/' answered Jean-Marie; “ and I have noth- 
ing to do; and then I feel as if I were good." 

Dr. Desprez took a seat on the post at the opposite side. 
He was beginning to take an interest in the talk, for the 
boy plainly thought before he spoke, and tried to answer 
truly. “It appears you have a taste for feeling good," 
said the doctor. “ Now, there you puzzle me extremely; 
for I thought you said you were a thief; and the two are 
incompatible." 

“ Is it very bad to steal?" asked Jean-Marie. 

“ Such is the general opinion, little boy," replied the 
doctor. 

“No; but I mean as I stole," exclaimed the other. 
“ For I had no choice. I think it is surely right to have 
bread; it must be right to have bread, there comes so plain 
a want of it. And then they beat me cruelly if I returned 
with nothing," he added. “ I was not ignorant of right 
and wrong; for before that I had been well taught by a 
priest, who was very kind to me. " (The doctor made a. 
horrible grimace at the word “ priest.") “ But it seemed 
to me, when one had nothing to eat and was beaten, it was 
a different affair. I would not have stolen for tartlets, I 
believe; but any one would steal for baker's bread." 

“And so I suppose," said the doctor, with a rising 
sneer, “ you prayed God to forgive you, and explained the 
case to Him at length. " 

“ Why, sir?" asked Jean-Marie. “ I do not see." 

“ Your priest would see, however," retorted Desprez. 

“ Would he?" asked the boy, troubled for the first time. 
“ I should have thought God would have known." 

“Eh?" snarled the doctor. 

“ I should have thought God would have understood 
me," replied the other. “You do not, I sde; but then it 
was God that made me think so, was it not?" 

“ Little boy, little boy," said Dr. Desprez, “ I told yon 


180 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


already you had the vices of philosophy; if you display the 
virtues also, I must go. I am a student of the blessed laws 
of health, an observer of plain and temperate nature in her 
common walks; and I cannot preserve my equanimity in 
presence of a monster. Do you understand?” 

“ No, sir,” said the boy. 

I will make my meaning dear to you,” replied the 
doctor. “ Look there at the sky — behind the belfry first, 
where it is so light, and then up and up, turning your chin 
back, right to the top of the dome, where it is already as 
blue as at noon. Is not that a beautiful color? Does it 
not please the heart? We have seen it all our lives, until 
it has grown in with our familiar thoughts. Now,” 
changing his tone, “ suppose that sky to become suddenly 
of a live and fiery amber, like the color of clear coals, and 
growing scarlet toward the top — I do not say it would be 
.any the less beautiful; but would you like it as well?” 

“ I suppose not,” answered Jean-Marie. 

“ Neither do I like you,” returned the doctor, roughly. 
*‘I hate all odd people, and you are the most curious little 
boy in all the world. ” 

Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for awhile, and then he 
raised his head again and looked over at the doctor with an 
air of candid inquiry. “ But are not you a very curious 
gentleman?” he asked. 

The doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the boy, 
clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him on both cheeks. 

Admirable, admirable imp!” he cried. “ What a morn- 
ing, what an hour for a theorist of forty- two! No,” he 
continued, apostrophizing heaven, “I did not know that 
such boys existed; I was ignorant they made them so; I 
had doubted of my race; and now! It is like,” he added, 
picking up his stick, “ like a lovers* meeting. I have 
bruised my favorite staff in that moment of enthusiasm. 
The injury, however, is not grave.** He caught the boy 
looking at him in obvious wonder, embarrassment, and 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


181 


alarm. “ Hullo!” said he, “ why do you look at me like 
that? Egad, I believe the boy despises me. Do you de- 
spise me, boy?” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Jean-Marie, seriously; “ only I do not 
understand.” 

“ You must excuse me, sir,” returned the doctor, with 
gravity; “I am still so young. Oh, hang him!” he added 
to himself. And he took his seat again and observed the 
hoy sardonically. “ He has spoiled the quiet of my morn- 
ing,” thought he. “ I shall be nervous all day, and have 
a febricule when I digest. Let me compose myself.” And 
so he dismissed his preoccupations by an effort of the will 
which he had long practiced, and let his soul roam abroad 
in the contemplation of the morning. He inhaled the air, 
tasting it critically as a connoisseur tastes a vintage, and 
prolonging the expiration with hygienic gusto. He counted 
the little flecks of cloud along the sky. He followed the 
movements of the birds round the church tower — making 
long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning airy somersaults 
in fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions. 
And in this way he regained peace of mind and animal 
composure, conscious of his limbs, conscious of the sight 
of his eyes, conscious that the air had a cool taste, like a 
fruit, at the top of his throat;' and at last, in complete ab- 
straction, he began to sing. The doctor had but one air — 
•“ Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre;” even with that he was 
4>n terms of mere politness; and his musical exploits were 
always reserved for moments when he was alone and en- 
tirely happy. 

He was recalled to the earth rudely by a pained expres- 
sion on the boy’s face. “ What do you think of my sing- 
ing?” he inquired, stopping in the middle of the note; and 
then, after he had waited some little while and received no 
answer, “ What do you think of my singing?” he repeated, 
imperiously. 

“ I do not like it,” faltered Jean-Marie. 


182 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


44 Oh, come!” cried the doctor. 44 Possibly you are & 
performer yourself?” 

4 4 1 sing better than that,” replied the boy. 

The doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction. 
He was aware that he was angry, and blushed for himself 
in consequence, which made him angrier. 44 If this is how 
you address your master!” he said at last, with a shrug; 
and a flourish of his arms. 

44 1 do not speak to him at all,” returned the boy. 44 1 
do not like him.” 

44 Then you like me?” snapped Dr. Desprez, with un- 
usual eagerness. 

44 1 do not know,” answered Jean-Marie. 

The doctor rose. 44 1 shall wish you a good-morning,^ 
he said. 44 You are too much for me. Perhaps you have 
blood in your veins, perhaps celestial ichor, or perhaps you 
circulate nothing more gross than respirable air; but of 
one thing I am inexpugnably assured: — that you are no 
human being. Ho, boy ” — shaking his stick at him — 
44 you are not a human being. Write, write it in your 
memory — 4 1 am not a human being — I have no preten- 
sion to be a human being — I am a dive, a dream, an angel r 
an acrostic, an illusion — what you please, but not a human 
being/ And so accept my humble salutations and fare- 
well!” 

And with that the doctor made off along the street in 
some emotion, and the boy stood, mentally gaping, where 
he left him. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE ADOPTION. 

Male. Desprez, who answered to the Christian name of 
Anastasie, presented an agreeable type of her sex; exceed- 
ingly wholesome to look upon, a stout brune, with cool 
smooth cheeks, steady, dark eyes, and hands that neither 


THE TREASURE OF FRAXCHARD. 


183 


art nor nature could improve. She was the sort of person 
over whom adversity passes like a summer cloud; she 
might, in the worst of conjunctions, knit her brows into 
one vertical furrow for a moment, but the next it would be 
gone. She had much of the placidity of a contented nun; 
with little of her piety, however; for Anastasie was of a very 
mundane nature, fond of oysters and old wine, and some- 
what bold pleasantries, and devoted to her husband for her 
own sake rather than for his. She was imperturbably 
good-natured, but had no idea of self-sacrifice. To live in 
that pleasant old house, with a green garden behind and 
bright flowers about the window, to eat and drink of the 
best, to gossip with a neighbor for a quarter of an hour, 
never to wear stays or a dress except when she went to 
Fontainebleau shopping, to be kept in a continual supply 
of racy novels, and to be married to Dr. Desprez and have 
no ground of jealousy, filled the cup of her nature to the 
brim. Those who had known the doctor in bachelor days, 
when he had aired quite as many theories, but of a differ- 
ent order, attributed his present philosophy to the study of 
Anastasie. It was her brute enjoyment that he rational- 
ized and perhaps vainly imitated. 

Mme. Desprez was an artist in the kitchen, and made 
coffee to a nicety. She had a knack of tidiness, with which 
she had infected the doctor; everything was in its place; 
everything capable of polish shone gloriously; and dust was 
a thing banished from her empire. Aline, their single serv- 
ant, had no other business in the world but to scour and 
burnish. So Dr. Desprez lived in his house like a fatted 
calf, warmed and cosseted to his heart’s content. 

The midday meal was excellent. There was a ripe 
melon, a fish from the river in a memorable Bearnaise 
sauce, a fat fowl in a fricassee, and a dish of asparagus, fol- 
lowed by some fruit. The doctor drank half a bottle plus 
one glass, the wife half a bottle minus the same quantity, 
which was a marital privilege, of an excellent Cote-Kotie, 


184 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


seven years old. Then the coffee was brought, and a flask: 
of Chartreuse for madame, for the doctor despised and dis- 
trusted such decoctions; and then Aline left the wedded, 
pair to the pleasures of memory and digestion. 

“ It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cherished one,” 
observed the doctor — “ this coffee is adorable — a very for- 
tunate circumstance upon the whole — Anastasie, I beseech 
you, go without that poison for to-day; only one day, and 
you will feel the benefit, I pledge my reputation. " 

“ What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend?” in- 
quired Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was off 
daily recurrence. 

“ That we have no children, my beautiful,” replied the 
doctor. “ I think of it more and more as the years go on r 
and with more and more gratitude toward the Power that 
dispenses such afflictions. Your health, my darling, my 
studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, how they would 
all have suffered, how they would all have been sacrificed! 
And for what? Children are the last word of human im- 
perfection. Health flees before their face. They cry, my 
dear; they put vexatious questions; they demand to be fed, 
to be washed, to be educated, to have their noses blown; 
and then, when the time comes, they break our hearts, as 
I break this piece of sugar. A pair of professed egotists, 
like you and me, should avoid offspring, like an infi- 
delity.” 

“ Indeed!” said she; and she laughed. “ How, that is 
like you — to take credit for the thing you could not help.” 

“My dear,” returned the doctor, solemnly, “ we might 
have adopted.” 

“ Never!” cried madame. “ Never, doctor, with my 
consent. If the child were my own flesh and blood, I 
would not say no. But to take another person’s indiscre- 
tion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much 
sense.” 

“ Precisely,” replied the doctor. “We both had. And 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


185 


I am all the better pleased with our wisdom, because— be- 
cause — ” He looked at her sharply. 

“Because what?” she asked, with a faint premonition 
of danger. 

“ Because I have found the right person,” said the doc- 
tor, firmly, “ and shall adopt him this afternoon.” 

Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. “ You have lost 
your reason,” she said; and there was a clang in her voice 
that seemed to threaten trouble. 

“Not so, my dear,” he replied; “ I retain its complete 
exercise. To the proof: instead of attempting to cloak my 
inconsistency, I have, by way of preparing you, thrown it 
into strong relief. You will there, I think, recognize the 
philosopher who has the ecstasy to call you wife. The fact 
is, I have been reckoning all this while without an acci- 
dent. I never thought to find a son of my own. Now, 
last night, I found one. Do not unnecessarily alarm your- 
self, my dear; he is not a drop of blood to me that I know. 
It is his mind, darling, his mind that calls me father.” 

“ His mind!” she repeated, with a titter between scorn 
and hysterics. “His mind, indeed! Henri, is this an 
idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad? His mind! And what 
of my mind?” 

“ Truly,” replied the doctor, with a shrug, “you have 
your finger on the hitch. He will be strikingly antipa- 
thetic to my beautiful Anastasie. She will never under- 
stand him; he will never understand her. You married 
the animal side of my nature, dear; and it is on the 
spiritual side that I find my affinity for Jean-Marie. So 
much so, that, to be perfectly frank, I stand in some awe 
•of him myself. You will easily perceive that I am an- 
nouncing a calamity for you. Do not,” he broke out in 
tones of real solicitude — “ do not give way to tears after a 
meal, Anastasie. Y"ou will certainly give yourself a false 
digestion. ” 

.Anastasie controlled herself. “ You know how willing I 


186 


THE TREASURE OF FRAETCHARD. 


am to humor you,” she said, “ in all reasonable matters. 
But on this point — ” 

“ My dear love,” interrupted the doctor, eager to pre- 
vent a refusal, “ who wished to leave Paris? Who made 
me give up cards, and the opera, and the boulevard, and 
my social relations, and all that was my life before I knew 
you? Have I been faithful? Have I been obedient? 
Have I not borne my doom with cheerfulness? In all 
honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right to a stipulation on 
my side? I have, and you know it. I stipulate my son.'* 

Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colors in- 
stantly. “ You will break my heart,” she sighed. 

“ Not in the least,” said he. “ You will feel a trifling 
inconvenience for a month, just as I did when I was first 
brought to this vile hamlet; then your admirable sense and 
temper will prevail, and I see you already as content as 
ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.” 

“ You know I can refuse you nothing,” she said, with a 
last flicker of resistance; “ nothing that will make you 
truly happier. But will this? Are you sure, my husband? 
Last night, you say, you found him! He may be the worst 
of humbugs. ” 

“ I think not,” replied the doctor. “ But dp not sup- 
pose me so unwary as to adopt him out of hand. I am, I 
flatter myself, a finished man of the world; I have had all 
possibilities in view; my plan is contrived to meet them all. 
I take the lad as stable boy. If he pilfer, if he grumble* 
if he desire to change, I shall see I was mistaken; I shall 
recognize him for no son of mine, and send him tramp- 
ing.” 

“You will never do so when the time comes,” said his 
wife; “ I know your good heart.” 

She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh; the doc- 
tor smiled as he took it and carried it to his lips; he had 
gained his point with greater ease than he had dared to 
hope; for perhaps the twentieth time he had proved the 


THE TREASURE OF FRAKCHARD. 


187 


efficacy of his trusty argument, his Excalibur, the hint of 
a return to Paris. Six months in the capital, for a man 
of the doctor's antecedents and relations, implied no less a 
calamity than total ruin. Anastasie had saved the re- 
mainder of his fortune by keeping him strictly in the coun- 
try. The very name of Paris put her in a blue fear; and 
she would have allowed her husband to keep a menagerie 
in the back garden, let alone adopting a stable-boy, rather 
than permit the question of return to be discussed. 

About four of the afternoon, the mountebank rendered 
up his ghost; he had never been conscious since his seizure. 
Dr. Desprez was present at his last passage, and declared 
the farce over. Then he took Jean-Marie by the shoulder 
and led him out into the inn garden where there was a con- 
venient bench beside the river. Here he sat him down and 
made the boy place himself on his left. 

“ Jean-Marie," he said, very gravely, “this world is 
exceedingly vast; and even France, which is only a small 
corner of it, is a great place for a little lad like you. Un- 
fortunately it is full of eager, shouldering people moving 
on; and there are very few bakers' shops for so many 
caters. Your master is dead; you are not fit to gain a liv- 
ing by yourself; you do not wish to steal? No. Your 
situation then is undesirable; it is, for the moment, crit- 
ical. On the other hand, you behold in me a man not old, 
though elderly, still enjoying the youth of the heart and 
the intelligence; a man of instruction; easily situated in 
this world's affairs; keeping a good table: — a man, neither 
as friend nor host, to be despised. I offer you your food 
and clothes, and to teach you lessons in the evening, which 
will be infinitely more to the purpose for a lad of your 
stamp than those of all the priests in Europe. I propose 
no wages, but if ever you take a thought to leave me, the 
-door shall be open, and I will give you a hundred francs to 
start the world upon. In return, I have an old horse and 
chaise, which you would very speedily learn to clean and 


188 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


keep in order. Do not hurry yourself to answer, and take 
it or leave it as you judge aright. Only remember this, 
that I am no sentimentalist or charitable person, but a- 
man who lives rigorously to himself; and that if I make 
the proposal, it is for my own ends — it is because I perceive 
clearly an advantage to myself. And now, reflect . 99 

“ I shall be very glad. I do not see what else I can do. 
I thank you, sir, most kindly, and I will try to be useful/* 
said the boy. 

“ Thank you,” said the doctor, warmly, rising at the 
same time and wiping his brow, for he had suffered agonies 
while the thing hung in the wind. A refusal, after the 
scene at noon, would have placed hini in a ridiculous light 
before Anastasie. “ How hot and heavy is the evening, to 
be sure! I have always had a fancy to be a fish in sum- 
mer, Jean-Marie, here in the Loing beside Gretz. I 
should lie under a water-lily and listen to the bells, which 
must sound most delicately down below. That would be a 
life — do you not think so too?” 

“ Yes,” said Jean-Marie. 

“ Thank God you have imagination!” cried the doctor, 
embracing the boy with his usual effusive warmth, though 
it was a proceeding that seemed to disconcert the sufferer 
almost as much as if he had been an English school-boy of 
the same age. “ And now,” he added, “ I will take you 
to my wife.” 

Mme. Desprez sat in the dining-room in a cool wrapper. 
All the blinds were down, and the tile floor had been re- 
cently sprinkled with water; her eyes were half shut, but 
she affected to be reading a novel as they entered. Though 
she was a bustling woman, she enjoyed repose between^ 
whiles and had a remarkable appetite for sleep. 

The doctor went through a solemn form of introduction, 
adding, for the benefit of both parties, “You must try tea 
like each other for my sake . 99 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 189 

“He is very pretty/' said Anastasie. “Will you kiss 
me, my pretty little fellow?" 

The doctor was furious, and dragged her into the pas?- 
sage. “ Are you a fool, Anastasie?" he said. “ What is 
all this I hear about the tact of women? Heaven knows, I 
have not met with it in my experience. You address my 
little philosopher as if he were an infant. He must be 
spoken to with more respect, I tell you; he must not be 
kissed and Georgy-porgy'd like an ordinary child." 

“ I only did it to please you, I am sure," replied Ana- 
stasie; “ but I will try to do better." 

The doctor apologized for his warmth. “ But I do wish, 
him," he continued, “ to feel at home among us. And 
really your conduct was so idiotic, my cherished one, and. 
so utterly and distantly out of place, that a saint might- 
have been pardoned a little vehemence in disapproval. 
Do, do try — if it is possible for a woman to understand 
young people — but of course it is not, and I waste my 
breath. Hold your tongue as much as possible at least, and 
observe my conduct narrowly; it will serve you for a* 
model." 

Anastasie did as she was bidden, and considered the doc- 
tor's behavior. She observed that he embraced the boy 
three times in the course of the evening, and managed gen- 
erally to confound and abash the little fellow out of speech 
and appetite. But she had the true womanly heroism in 
little affairs. Not only did she refrain from the cheap re- 
venge of exposing the doctor's errors to himself, but she: 
did her best to remove their ill effect on Jean-Marie. 
When Desprez went out for his last breath of air before re- 
tiring for the night, she came over to the boy's side and 
took his hand. 

“ You must not be surprised nor frightened by my hus- 
band's manners," she said. “ He is the kindest of men* 
but so clever that he is sometimes difficult to understand. 
You will soon grow used to him, and then you will love 


190 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


him, for that nobody can help. As for me, you may be 
sure, I shall try to make you happy, and will not bother 
you at all. I think we should be excellent friends, you 
and I. I am not clever, but I am very good-natured. 
Will you give me a kiss?” 

He held up his face, and she took him in her arms and 
then began to cry. The woman had spoken in complai- 
sance; but she had warmed to her own words, and tender- 
ness followed. The doctor, entering, found them enlaced: 
he concluded that his wife was in fault; and he was just be- 
ginning, in an awful voice, “ Anastasie — ” when she 
looked up at him, smiling, with an upraised finger; and he 
held his peace, wondering, while she led the boy to his 
attic. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER. 

The installation of the adopted stable-boy was thus 
happily effected, and the wheels of life continued to run 
smoothly in the doctor’s house. Jean-Marie did his horse 
and carriage duty in the morning; sometimes helped in the 
housework; sometimes walked abroad with the doctor, to 
drink wisdom from the fountain-head; and was introduced 
at night to the sciences and the dead tongues. He retained 
his singular placidity of mind and manner; he was rarely 
in fault; but he made only a very partial progress in his 
studies, and remained much of a stranger in the family. 

The doctor was a pattern of regularity. All forenoon he 
worked on his great book, the “ Comparative Pharma- 
copoeia, or Historical Dictionary of all Medicines,” which 
as yet consisted principally of slips of paper and pins. 
When finished, it was to fill many personable volumes and to 
combine antiquarian interest with professional utility. But 
the doctor was studious of literary graces and the pict- 


THE TREASURE OF FRAKCHARD. 


191 


uresque; an anecdote, a touch of manners, a moral quali- 
fication, or a sounding epithet was sure to be preferred be- 
fore a piece of science; a little more, and he would have* 
written the “Comparative Pharmacopoeia ” in verse! 
The article “ Mummia,” for instance, was already com- 
plete, though the remainder of the work had not progressed 
beyond the letter A. It was exceedingly copious and en- 
tertaining, written with quaintness and color, exact,, 
erudite, a literary article; but it would hardly have afforded 
guidance to a practicing physician of to-day. The feminine 
good sense of his wife had led her to point this out with 
uncompromising sincerity; for the dictionary was duly- 
read aloud to her, betwixt sleep and waking, as it pro- 
ceeded toward an infinitely distant completion; and the* 
doctor was a little sore on the subject of mummies, and 
sometimes resented an allusion with asperity. 

After the midday meal and a proper period of digestion, 
he walked, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by 
Jean-Marie; for madame would have preferred any hard- 
ship rather than walk. 

She was, as I have said, a very busy person, continually 
occupied about material comforts, and ready to drop asleep 
over a novel the instant she was disengaged. This was the 
less objectionable, as she never snored or grew distempered 
in complexion when she slept. On the contrary, she 
looked the very picture of luxurious and appetizing ease,, 
and woke without a start to the perfect possession of her 
faculties. 1 am afraid she was greatly an animal, but she 
was a very nice animal to have about. In this way, she 
had little to do with Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which 
had been established between them on the first night re- 
mained unbroken; they held occasional conversations, 
mostly on household matters; to the extreme disappoint- 
ment of the doctor, they occasionally sallied off together to 
that temple of debasing superstition, the village church; 
madame and he, both in their Sunday's best, drove twice 


192 THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 

a month to Fontainebleau and returned laden with pur- 
chases; and in short, although the doctor still continued to 
regard them as irreconcilably antipathetic, their relation 
was as intimate, friendly, and confidential as their natures 
■suffered. 

I fear, however, that in her heart of hearts, madame 
kindly despised and pitied the boy. She had no admira- 
tion for his class of virtues; she liked a smart, polite, for- 
ward, roguish sort of boy, cap in hand, light of foot, meet- 
ing the eye; she liked volubility, charm, a little vice — the 
promise of a second Doctor Desprez. And it was her in- 
defeasible belief that Jean-Marie was dull. “ Poor dear 
boy/* she had said once, “ how sad it is that he should be 
so stupid!” She had never repeated that remark, for the 
doctor had raged like a wild bull, denouncing the brutal 
bluntness of her mind, bemoaning his own fate to be so 
unequally mated with an ass, and, what touched Aanastasie 
more nearly, menacing the table china by the fury of his 
gesticulations. But she adhered silently to her opinion; 
and when Jean-Marie was sitting, stolid, blank, but not 
unhappy, over his unfinished tasks, she would snatch her 
opportunity in the doctor's absence, go over to him, put 
her arms about his neck, lay her cheek to his, and com- 
municate her sympathy with his distress. “ Do not 
mind,” she would say; “ I, too, am not at all clever, and 
I can assure you that it makes no difference in life.” 

The doctor's view was naturally different. That gentle- 
man never wearied of the sound of his own voice, which 
was, to say the truth, agreeable enough to hear. He now 
had a listener, who was not so cynically indifferent as An- 
astasie, and who sometimes put him on his mettle by the 
.most relevant objections. Besides, was he not educating 
the boy? And education, philosophers are agreed, is the 
most philosophical .of duties. What can be more heavenly 
to poor mankind than to have one's hobby grow into a 
duty to the State? Then, indeed, do the ways of life be- 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


193 


come ways of pleasantness. Never had the doctor seen 
reason to be more content with his endowments. Philoso- 
phy flowed smoothly from his lips. He was so agile a 
dialectician that he could trace his nonsense, when chal- 
lenged, back to some root in sense, and prove it to be a 
sort of flower upon his system. He slipped out of anti- 
nomies like a fish, and left his disciple marveling at the 
rabbi's depth. 

Moreover, deep down in his heart the doctor was disap- 
pointed with the ill success of his more formal education. 
A boy, chosen by so acute an observer for his aptitude, and 
guided along the path of learning by so philosophic an in- 
structor, was bound, by the nature of the universe, to 
make a more obvious and lasting advance. Now Jean- 
Marie was slow in all things, impenetrable in others; and 
his power of forgetting was fully on a level with his power 
to learn. Therefore the doctor cherished his peripatetic 
lectures, to which the boy attended, which he generally ap- 
peared to enjoy, and by which he often profited. 

Many and many were the talks they had together; and 
health and moderation proved the subject of the doctor's 
divagations. To these he lovingly returned. 

44 1 lead you," he would say, 44 by the green pastures. 
My system, my beliefs, my medicines, are resumed in one 
phrase — to avoid excess. Blessed nature, healthy, temper- 
ate nature, abhors and exterminates excess. Human law, 
in this matter, imitates at a great distance her provisions; 
and we must strive to supplement the efforts of the law. 
Yes, bo} r , we must be a law to ourselves and for our neigh- 
bors — lex armdta — armed, emphatic, tyrannous law. If 
you see a crapulous human ruin snuffing, dash him from 
Iiis box! The judge, though in a way an admission of 
disease, is less offensive to me than either the doctor or the 
priest. Above all the doctor — the doctor and the purulent 
trash and garbage of his pharmacopoeia! Pure air— from 
the neighborhood of a pinetum for the sake of the turpen- 


194 


THE TREASURE OF FRAN CHARD. 


tine — unadulterated wine, and the reflections of an un- 
sophisticated spirit in the presence of the works of nature 
— these, my boy, are the best medical appliances and the 
best religious comforts. Devote yourself to these. Hark I 
there are the bells of Bourron (tlm wind is in the north, it 
will be fair). How clear and airy is the sound! The 
nerves are harmonized and quieted; the mind attuned to 
silence; and observe how easily and regularly beats the 
heart! Your unenlightened doctor would see nothing in 
these sensations; and yet you yourself perceive they are a 
part of health. Did you remember your cinchona this 
morning? Good. Cinchona also is a work of nature; it 
is, after all, only the bark of a tree which we might gather 
for ourselves if we lived in the locality. What a world is 
this! Though a professed atheist, I delight to bear my 
testimony to the world. Look at the gratuitous remedies 
and pleasures that surround our path! The river runs by 
the garden end, our bath,,our fish-pond, our natural system 
of drainage. There is a well in the court which sends up 
sparkling water from the earth's very heart, clean, cool, 
and, with a little wine, most wholesome. The district is 
notorious for its salubrity: rheumatism is the only preva- 
lent complaint, and I myself have never had a touch of it. 
I tell you — and my opinion is based upon the coldest, 
clearest processes of reason — if I, if you, desired to leave 
this home of pleasures, it would be the duty, it would be 
the privilege, of our best friend to prevent us with a pistol 
bullet." 

One beautiful June day they sat upon the hill outside the 
village. The river, as blue as heaven, shone here and there 
among' the foliage. The indefatigable birds turned and 
flickered about Gretz church tower. A healthy wind blew 
from over the forest, and the sound of innumerable thou- 
sands of tree-tops and innumerable millions on millions of 
green leaves was abroad in the air, and filled the ear with 
something between whispered speech and singing. It 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


195 


seemed as if every blade of grass must hide a cigale; and 
the fields rang merrily with their music, jingling far and 
near, as with the sleigh-bells of the fairy queen. From 
their station on the slope the eye embraced a large space of 
poplaFd plain upon the one hand, the waving hill- tops of 
the forest on the other, and Gretz itself in the middle, a 
handful of roofs. Under the bestriding arch of the blue 
heavens, the place seemed dwindled to a toy. It seemed 
incredible that people dwelt, and could find room to turn 
or air to breathe, in such a corner of the world. The 
thought came home to the boy, perhaps for the first time, 
and he gave it words. 

4 4 How small it looks !” he sighed. 

44 Ay,” replied the doctor, 44 small enough now. Yet it 
was once a walled city; thriving, full of furred burgesses 
and men in armor, humming with affairs — with tall spires, 
for aught that I know, and portly towers along the battle- 
ments. A thousand chimneys ceased smoking at the cur- 
few bell. There were gibbets at the gate as thick as scare- 
crows. In time of war, the assault swarmed against it with 
ladders, the arrows fell like leaves, the defenders sallied 
hotly over the draw-bridge, each side uttered its cry as they 
plied their weapons. Do you know that the walls extended 
as far as the Commanderie? Tradition so reports. Alas, 
what a long way off is all this confusion — nothing left of it 
but my quiet words spoken in your ear— -and the town it- 
self shrunk to the hamlet underneath us! By and by came 
the English wars — you shall hear more of the English, a 
stupid jDeople, who sometimes blundered into good — and 
Gretz was taken, sacked, and burned. It is the history of 
many towns; but Gretz never rose again; it was never re- 
built; its ruins were a quarry to serve the growth of rivals; 
and the stones of Gretz are now erect along the streets of 
Nemours. It gratifies me that our old house was the first 
to rise after the calamity; when the town had come to an 
end, it inaugurated the hamlet.” 


196 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


“ 1, too, am glad of that,” said Jean-Marie. 

“It should be the temple of the humbler virtues,” re- 
sponded the doctor, with a savory gusto. “ Perhaps' one 
of the reasons why I love my little hamlet as I do, is that 
we have a similar history, she and I. Have I told you that 
I was once rich?” 

“ I do not think so,” answered Jean-Marie. “ I do not 
think I should have forgotten. I am sorry you should 
have lost your fortune.” 

“ Sorry?” cried the doctor. “ Why, I find I have scarce 
begun your education after all. Listen to me! Would 
you rather live in the old Gretz or in the new, free from 
the alarms of war, with the green country at the door, 
without noise, passports, the exactions of the soldiery, or 
the jangle of the curfew-bell to send us off to bed by sun- 
down?” 

“ I suppose I should prefer the new,” replied the boy. 

“ Precisely,” returned the doctor; “so do I. And, in 
the same way, I prefer my present moderate fortune to my 
former wealth. Golden mediocrity! cried the adorable 
ancients; and I subscribe to their enthusiasm. Have I not 
good wine, good food, good air, the fields and the forest for 
my walk, a house, an admirable wife, a boy whom I pro- 
test I cherish like a son? Now, if I were still rich, I should 
indubitably make my residence in Paris — you know Paris 
— Paris and Paradise are not convertible terms. This 
pleasant noise of the wind streaming among leaves changed 
into the grinding Babel of the street, the stupid glare of 
plaster substituted for this quiet pattern of greens and 
grays, the nerves shattered, the digestion falsified — picture 
the fall! Already you perceive the consequences; the 
mind is stimulated, the heart steps to a different measure, 
and the man is himself no longer. I have passionately 
studied myself — the true business of philosophy. I know 
my character as the musician knows the ventages of his 
flute. Should I return to Paris, I should ruin myself gam- 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


197 


bling; nay, I go further — I should break the heart of my 
Anastasie with infidelities. ” 

This was too much for Jean-Marie. That a place should 
so transform the most excellent of men transcended his be- 
lief. Paris, he protested, was even an agreeable place of 
residence. “ Nor when I lived in that city did I feel much 
difference,” he pleaded. 

“ What!" cried the doctor. “ Did you not steal when 
you were there?” 

But the boy could never be brought to see that he had 
done anything wrong when he stole. Nor, indeed, did the 
doctor think he had; but that gentleman was never very 
scrupulous when in want of a retort. 

“And now,” he concluded, “do you begin to under- 
stand? My only friends were those who ruined me. Gretz 
has been my academy, my sanatorium, my heaven of inno- 
cent pleasures. If millions are offered me, I wave them 
back: Retro , Sathanas! Evil one, begone! Fix your mind 
on my example; despise riches, avoid the debasing influence 
of cities. Hygiene — hygiene and mediocrity of fortune — 
these be your watchwords during life!” 

The doctor’s system of hygiene strikingly coincided with 
his tastes; and his picture of the perfect life was a faithful 
description of the one he was leading at the time. But it is 
easy to convince a boy, whom you supply with all the facts 
for the discussion. And besides, there was one thing ad- 
mirable in the philosophy, and that was the enthusiasm of 
the philosopher. There was never any one more vigorously 
determined to be pleased; and if he was not a great logi- 
cian, and so had no right to convince the intellect, he was 
certainly something of a poet, and had a fascination to 
seduce the heart. What he could not achieve in his cus- 
tomary humor of a radiant admiration of himself and his 
circumstances, he sometimes effected in his fits of gloom. 

“ Boy," he would say, “avoid me to-day. If I were 
superstitious, I should even beg for an interest in your 


198 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


prayers. I am in the black fit; the evil spirit of King 
Saul, the hag of the merchant Abudah, the personal devil 
of the mediaeval monk, is with me— is in me,” tapping on 
his breast. The vices of my nature are now uppermost; 
innocent pleasures woo me in vain; I long for Paris, for 
my wallowing in the mire. See,” he would continue, pro- 
ducing a handful of silver, “ I denude myself, I am not to 
be trusted with the price of a fare. Take it, keep it for 
me, squander it on deleterious candy, throw it in the deep- 
est river — I will homologate your action. Save me from 
that part of myself which I disown. If you see me falter, 
do not hesitate; if necessary, wreck the train! I speak, of 
course, by a parable. Any extremity were better than for 
me to reach Paris alive.” 

Doubtless the doctor enjoyed these little scenes, as a 
variation in his part; they represented the Byronic element 
in the somewhat artificial poetry of his existence; but to the 
boy, though he was dimly aware of their theatricality, they 
represented more. The doctor made perhaps too little, 
the boy possibly too much, of the reality and gravity of 
these temptations. 

One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. “ Could 
not riches be used well?” he asked. 

“ In theory, yes,” replied the doctor. “ But it is found 
in experience that no one does so. All the world imagine 
they will be exceptional when they grow wealthy; but pos- 
session is debasing, new desires spring up; and the silly 
taste for ostentation eats out the heart of pleasure.” 

4 4 Then you might be better if you had less,” said the 
boy. 

“ Certainly not,” replied the doctor; but his voice quav- 
ered as he spoke. 

“Why?” demanded pitiless innocence. 

Dr. Desprez saw all the colors of the rainbow in a mo- 
ment; the stable universe appeared to be about capsizing 
with him. “Because,” said he — affecting deliberation 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


199 


after an obvious pause— “ because I have formed my life 
for my present income. It is not good for men of my years 
to be violently dissevered from their habits . 99 

That was a sharp brush. The doctor breathed hard, and 
fell into taciturnity for the afternoon. As for the boy, he 
was delighted with the resolution of his doubts; even won- 
dered that he had not foreseen the obvious and conclusive 
answer. His faith in the doctor was a stout piece of goods. 
Desprez was inclined to be a sheet in the wind’s eye after 
dinner, especially after Rhone wine, his favorite weakness. 
He would then remark on the warmth of his feeling for 
Anastasie, and with inflamed cheeks and a loose, flustered 
smile, debate upon all sorts of topics, and be feebly and in- 
discreetly witty. But the adopted stable-boy would not per- 
mit himself to entertain a doubt that savored of ingratitude. 
It is quite true that a man may be a second father to you,, 
and yet take too much to drink; but the best natures are 
ever slow to accept such truths. 

The doctor thoroughly possessed his heart, but perhaps 
he exaggerated his influence over his mind. Certainly 
Jean-Marie adopted some of his master’s opinions, but I 
have yet to learn that he ever surrendered one of his own. 
Convictions existed in him by divine right; they were vir- 
gin, unwrought, the brute metal of decision. He could 
add others indeed, but he could not put away; neither did 
he care if they were perfectly agreed among themselves; 
and his spiritual pleasures had nothing to do with turning 
them over or justifying them in words. Words were with 
him a mere accomplishment, like dancing. When he was 
by himself, his pleasures were almost vegetable. He would 
slip into the woods toward Acheres, and sit in the mouth 
of a cave among gray birches. His soul stared straight out 
of his eyes; he did not move or think; sunlight, thin 
shadows moving in the wind, the edge of firs against the 
sky, occupied and bound his faculties. He was pure unity, 
a spirit wholly abstracted, A single mood filled him, to 


500 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


which all the objects of sense contributed, as the colors of 
the spectrum merge and disappear in white light. 

So while the doctor made himself drunk with words, the 
adopted stable-boy bemused himself with silence. 


CHAPTER Y. 

TREASURE TROVE. 

The doctor’s carriage was a two- wheeled gig with a hood; 
a kind of vehicle in much favor among country doctors. 
On how many roads has one not seen it, a great way off be- 
tween the poplars! — in how many village streets, tied to a 
gate-post! This sort of chariot is affected — particularly at 
the trot — by a kind of pitching movement to and fro across 
the axle, which well entitles it to the style of a Noddy. 
The hood describes a considerable arc against the landscape, 
with a solemnly absurd effect on the contemplative pedes- 
trian. To ride in such a carriage can not be numbered 
among the things that appertain to glory; but I have no 
doubt it may be useful in- liver complaint. Thence, per- 
haps, its wide popularity among physicians. 

One morning early, Jean-Marie led forth the doctor’s nod- 
dy, opened the gate and mounted to the driving seat. The 
doctor followed, arrayed from top to toe in spotless linen, 
armed with an immense flesh-colored umbrella, and girt 
with a botanical case on a baldric; and the equipage drove 
off smartly in a breeze of its own provocation. They were 
bound for Franchard, to collect plants, with an eye to the 
“ Comparative Pharmacopoeia.” 

A little rattling on the open roads, and they came to the 
borders of the forest and struck into an unfrequented track; 
the noddy yawed softly over the sand, with an accompani- 
ment of snapping twigs. There was a great, green, softly 
murmuring cloud of congregated foliage overhead. In the 
arcades of the forest the air retained the freshness of the 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


201 


night. The athletic bearing of the trees, each carrying its 
leafy mountain, pleased the mind like so many statues and 
the lines of the trunk led the eye admiringly upward to 
where the extreme leaves sparkled in a patch of azure. 
Squirrels leaped in mid air. It was a proper spot for a dev- 
otee of the goddess Hygeia. 

“ Have you been to Fran chard, Jean-Marie?'' inquired 
the doctor. “ I fancy not.” 

“ Never/ ' replied the boy. 

“ It is a ruin in a gorge/ ' continued Desprez, adopting his 
expository voice; “ the ruin of a hermitage and chapel. 
History tells us much of Franchard; how the recluse was 
often slain by robbers; how he lived on a most insufficient 
diet; how he was expected to pass his days in prayer. A 
letter is preserved, addressed to one of these solitaries by 
the superior of his order, full of admirable hygienic advice; 
bidding him go from his book to praying, and so back again, 
for variety's sake, and when he was weary of both to stroll 
about his garden and observe the honey bees. It is to this 
day my own system. You must often have remarked me 
leaving the “ Pharmacopoeia '' — often even in the middle 
of a phrase — to come forth into the sun and air. I admire 
the writer of that letter from my heart; he was a man of 
thought on the most important subjects. But, indeed, had 
I lived in the Middle Ages (I am heartily glad that I did 
not) I should have been an eremite myself — if I had not 
been a professed buffoon, that is. These were the only 
philosophical lives yet open : laughter or prayer; sneers, we 
might say, and tears. Until the sun of the Positive arose, 
the wise man had to make his choice between these two.” 

“ I have been a buffoon, of course/ ' observed Jean-Marie. 

“ I can not imagine you to have excelled in your profes- 
sion/' said the doctor, admiring the boy's gravity. “ Do 
you ever laugh?" 

“ Oh, yes," replied the other. “ I laugh often, 
very fond of jokes. " 


I am 


■202 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


“ Singular being!” said Desprez. “ But I divagate (I 
perceive in a thousand ways that I grow old), Franchard 
was at length destroyed in the English wars, the same that 
leveled Gretz. But — here is the point — the hermits (for 
there were already more than one) had foreseen the danger 
and carefully concealed the sacrificial vessels. These ves- 
sels were of monstrous value, Jean-Marie — monstrous value 
— priceless, we may say; exquisitely worked, of exquisite 
material. And now, mark me, they have never been found. 
In the reign of Louis Quatorze some fellows were digging 
liard by the ruins. Suddenly — tock! — the spade hit upon 
an obstacle. Imagine the men looking one to another; im- 
agine how their hearts bounded, how their color came and 
went. It was a coffer, and in Franchard, the place of buried 
treasure! They tore it open like famished beasts. Alas! 
it was not the treasure; only some priestly robes, which, at 
the touch of the eating air, fell upon themselves and in- 
stantly wasted into dust. The perspiration of these good 
iellows turned cold upon them, Jean-Marie. I will pledge 
my reputation, if there was anything like a cutting wind, 
one or other had a pneumonia for his trouble.” 

“ I should like to have seen them turning into dust,” said 
Jean-Marie. “Otherwise I should not have cared so greatly. ” 

“ You have no imagination,” cried the doctor. “ Pict- 
ure to yourself the scene. Dwell on the idea — a great 
treasure lying in the earth for centuries: the material for a 
giddy, copious, opulent existence not employed ; dresses and 
-exquisite pictures unseen; the swiftest galloping horses not 
stirring a hoof, arrested by a spell; women with the beau- 
tiful faculty of smiles, not smiling; cards, dice, opera sing- 
ing, orchestras, castles, beautiful parks and gardens, big 
ships with a tower of sail-cloth, all lying unborn in a coffin 
— and the stupid trees growing overhead in the sunlight, 
year after year. The thought drives one frantic.” 

“ It is only money,” replied Jean-Marie. “ It would do 
Farm . 9 ’ 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


203 


“Oh, come!” cried Desprez, “that is philosophy; it is 
all very fine, but not to the point just now. And besides, 
it is not ‘ only money/ as you call it; there are works of 
art in the question; the vessels were carved. You speak 
like a child. Y 7 ou weary me exceedingly, quoting my words 
out of all logical connection, like a parroquet. ” 

“ And at any rate, we have nothing to do with it,” re- 
turned the boy submissively. 

They struck the Route Ronde at that moment; and the 
sudden change to the rattling causeway combined, with the 
doctor’s irritation, to keep him silent. The noddy jigged 
along; the trees went by, looking on silently, as if they had 
something on their minds. The Quadrilateral was passed; 
then came Franehard. They put up the horse at the little 
solitary inn, and went forth strolling. The gorge was dyed 
deeply with heather; the rocks and birches standing lumi- 
nous in the sun. A great humming of bees about the flowers 
disposed Jean-Marie to sleep, and he sat down against a 
clump of heather, while the doctor went briskly to and fro, 
with quick turns, culling his simples. 

The boy’s head had fallen a little forward, his eyes were 
closed, his fingers had fallen lax about his knees, when a 
sudden cry called him to his feet. It was a strange sound, 
thin and brief; it fell dead, and silence returned as though 
it had never been interrupted. He had not recognized the 
doctor’s voice; but, as there was no one else in all the val- 
ley, it was plainly the doctor who had given utterance to 
the sound. He looked right and left, and there was 
Desprez, standing in a niche between two bowlders, and 
looking round on his adopted son with a countenance as 
white as paper. 

“ A viper!” cried Jean-Marie, running toward him. “ A 
viper! You are bitten!” 

The doctor came down heavily out of the cleft, and ad- 
vanced in silence to meet the boy, whom he took roughly 
by the shoulder. 


204 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


44 I have found it,” he said, with a gasp. 

44 A plant?” asked Jean-Marie. 

Desprez had a fit of unuatural gayety, which the rocks 
took up and mimicked. 44 A plant!” he repeated scorn- 
fully. 44 Well — yes — a plant. And here,” he added sud- 
denly, showing his right hand, which he had hitherto con- 
cealed behind his back — 44 here is one of the bulbs.” 

Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with earth. 

44 That?” said he. 44 It is a plate!” 

44 It is a coach and horses,” cried the doctor. 44 Boy,” 
he continued, growing warmer, 44 1 plucked away a great 
pad of moss from between these bowlders, and disclosed a 
crevice; and when I looked in, what do you suppose I saw? 

I saw a house in Paris with a court and garden, 1 saw 
my wife shining with diamonds, I saw myself a deputy, I 
saw you — well, I — I saw your future / 9 he concluded, rather 
feebly. 44 1 have just discovered America,” he added. 

44 But what is it?” asked the boy. 

44 The Treasure of Franchard,” cried the doctor; and, 
throwing his brown straw hat upon the ground, he whooped 
like an Indian and sprung upon Jean-Marie, whom he 
suffocated with embraces and bedewed with tears. Then 
he flung himself down among the heather and once more 
laughed until the valley rang. 

But the boy had now an interest of his own, a boy’s in- 
terest. Xo sooner was he released from the doctor’s 
accolade than he ran to the bowlders, sprung into the 
niche, and, thrusting his hand into the crevice, drew forth, 
one after another, incrusted with the earth of ages, the 
flagons, candlesticks, and patens of the hermitage of 
Franchard. A casket came last, tightly shut and very 
heavy. 

44 Oh, what fun!” he cried. 

But when he looked back at the doctor, who had fol- 
lowed close behind and was silently observing, the words 
died from his lips. Desprez was once more the color of 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 205 

ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of bestial greed 
possessed him. 

cc This is childish,” he said. 44 We lose precious time. 
Back to the inn, harness the trap, and bring it to yon 
bank. Run for your life, and remember — not one whis- 
per. I stay here to watch. ” 

Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not without sur- 
prise. The noddy was brought round to the spot indicat- 
ed; and the two gradually transported the treasure from 
its place of concealment to the boot below the driving seat. 
Once it was all stowed the doctor recovered his gayety. 

44 1 pay my grateful duties to the genius of this dell,” 
he said. 44 Oh, for a live coal, a heifer, and a jar of coun- 
try wine! I am in the vein for sacrifice, for a superb liba- 
tion. Well, and why not? We are at Franchard. En- 
glish pale ale is to be had — not classical indeed, but 
excellent. Boy, we shall drink ale.” 

44 But I thought it was so unwholesome,” said Jean- 
Marie, 44 and very dear besides.” 

44 Fiddle-de-dee!” exclaimed the doctor, gayly. 44 To 
the inn!” 

And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his head, with 
an elastic, youthful air. The horse was turned, and in a 
few seconds they drew up beside the palings of the inn 
garden. 

44 Here,” said Desprez — 4 4 here, near the stable, so that 
we may keep an eye upon things. ” 

They tied the horse, and entered the garden, the doctor 
singing, now in fantastic high notes, now producing deep 
reverberations from his chest. He took a seat, rapped 
loudly on the table, assailed the waiter with witticisms; 
and when the bottle of Bass was at length produced, far 
more charged with gas than the most delirious champagne, 
he filled out a long glassful of froth and pushed it over to 
Jean-Marie. 44 Drink,” he said; 44 drink deep. ” 


m 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


“ I would rather not,” faltered the boy, true to his 
training. 

“ What?” thundered Desprez. 

“ I am afraid of it,” said Jean-Marie; “ my stomach — ” 

“ Take it or leave it,” interrupted Desprez, fiercely; 
‘ £ but understand it once for all — there is nothing so con- 
temptible as a precisian.” 

Here was a new lesson! The boy sat bemused, looking 
at the glass but not tasting it, while the doctor emptied 
and refilled his own, at first with clouded brow, but gradu- 
ally yielding to the sun, the heady, prickling beverage, and 
his own predisposition to be happy. 

“ Once in a way,” he said, at last, by way of a conces- 
sion to the boy's more rigorous attitude, “ once in a way, 
and at so critical a moment, this ale is a nectar for the 
gods. The habit, indeed, is debasing; wine, the juice of 
the grape, is the true drink of the Frenchman, as I have 
often had occasion to point out; and I do not know that I 
can blame you for refusing this outlandish stimulant. You 
can have some wine and cakes. Is the bottle empty? 
Well, we will not be proud; we will have pity on your 
glass.” 

The beer being done, the doctor chafed bitterly while 
Jean-Marie finished his cakes. “ I burn to be 'gone,” he 
said, looking at his watch. “ Good God, how slow you 
eat!” And yet to eat slowly was his own particular pre- 
scription, the main secret of longevity! 

His martyrdom, however, reached an end at last; the 
pair resumed their places in the buggy, and Desprez, lean- 
ing luxuriously back, announced his intention of proceed- 
ing to Fontainebleau. 

“ To Fontainebleau?” repeated Jean-Marie. 

“ My words are always measured,” said the doctor. 
“ On!” 

The doctor was driven through the glades of paradise; 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


207 


the air, the light, the shining leaves, the very movements 
of the vehicle, seemed to fall in tune with his golden medi- 
tations; with his head thrown back, he dreamed a series of 
sunny visions, ale and pleasure dancing in his veins. At 
last he spoke. 

“ I shall telegraph for Casimir,” he said. “ Good Casi- 
mir! a fellow of the lower order of intelligence, Jean-Marie, 
distinctly not creative, not poetic; and yet he will repay 
your study; his fortune is vast, and is entirely due to his 
own exertions. He is the very fellow to help us to dispose 
of our trinkets, find us a suitable house in Paris, and man- 
age the details of our installation. Admirable Casimir, 
one of my oldest comrades! It was on his advice, I may 
add, that I invested my little fortune in Turkish bonds; 
when we have added these spoils of the mediaeval church to 
our stake in the Mohammedan empire, little boy, we shall 
positively roll among doubloons, positively roll! Beautiful 
forest,” he cried, “farewell! Though called to other 
scenes, I will not forget thee. Thy name is graven in my 
heart. Under the influence of prosperity I become dithy- 
rambic, Jean-Marie. Such is the impulse of the natural 
soul: such was the constitution of primeval man. And I 
— well, I will not refuse the credit — I have preserved my 
youth like a virginity; another, who should have led the 
same snoozing, countrified existence for these years, another 
had become rusted, become stereotype; but I, I praise my 
happy constitution, retain the spring unbroken. Fresh 
opulence and a new sphere of duties find me unabated in 
ardor and only more mature by knowledge. For this pro- 
spective change, Jean -Marie — it may probably have 
shocked you. Tell me now, did it not strike you as an 
inconsistency? Confess — it is useless to dissemble — it 
pained you?” 

4 4 Yes,” said the boy. 

* e You see,” returned the doctor, with sublime fatuity, 

1 read your thoughts! Nor am I surprised — your educa- 


208 THE TREASURE OF FRAKCHARD. 

tion is not yet complete; the higher duties of men have not 
been yet presented to you fully. A hint — till we have 
leisure — must suffice. Now that I am once more in pos- 
session of a modest competence; now that I have so long 
prepared myself in silent meditation, it becomes my suj>e- 
rior duty to proceed to Paris. My scientific training, my 
undoubted command of language, mark me out for the 
service of my country. Modesty in such a case would be a 
snare. If sin were a philosophical expression, I should 
call it sinful. A man must not deny his manifest abilities, 
for that is to evade his obligations. I must be up and 
doing; I must be no skulker in life’s battle.” 

So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint of his in- 
consistency with words; while the boy listened silently, his 
eyes fixed on the horse, his mind seething. It was all lost 
eloquence; no array of words could unsettle a belief of 
Jean-Marie’s; and he drove into Fontainebleau filled with 
pity, horror, indignation, and despair. 

In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on the driv- 
ing-seat, to guard the treasure; while the doctor, with a 
singular slightly tipsy airiness of manner, fluttered in and 
out of cafes, where he shook hands with garrison officers, 
and mixed an absinthe with the nicety of old experience; 
in and out of shops, from which he returned laden with 
costly fruits, real turtle, a magnificent piece of silk for his 
wife, a preposterous cane' for himself, and a kepi of the 
newest fashion for the boy; in and out of the telegraph 
office, whence he dispatched his telegram, and where three 
hours later he received an answer promising a visit on the 
morrow; and generally pervading Fontainebleau with the 
first fine aroma of his divine good humor. 

The sun was very low when they set forth again; the 
shadows of the forest trees extended across the broad white 
road that led them home; the penetrating odor of the even- 
ing wood had already arisen, like a cloud of incense, from 
that broad field of tree-tops; and even in the streets of the 


THE TREASURE OF FRAXCHARD. 


209 


town, where the air had been baked all day between white 
walls, it came in whiffs and pulses, like a distant music. 
Half-way home, the last gold flicker vanished from a great 
oak upon the left; and when they came forth beyond the 
borders of the wood, the plain was already sunken in pearly 
grayness, and a great, pale moon came swinging skyward 
through the filmy poplars. 

The doctor sung, the doctor whistled, the doctor talked. 
He spoke of the woods, and the wars, and the deposition of 
dew; he brightened and babbled of Paris; he soared into 
cloudy bombast on the glories of the political arena. All 
was to be changed; as the day departed, it took with it the 
vestiges of an outworn existence, and to-morrow's sun was 
to inaugurate the new. “ Enough," he cried, “ of this 
life of maceration!" His wife (still beautiful, or he was 
sadly partial) was to be no longer buried; she should now 
shine before society. Jean-Marie would find the world at 
his feet; the roads open to success, wealth, honor, and 
posthumous renown. “And oh, by the way," said he, 
“for God's sake keep 3 T our tongue quiet! You are, of 
course, a very silent fellow; it is a quality I gladly recog- 
nize in you — silence, golden silence! But this is a matter 
of gravity. No word must get abroad; none but the good 
Casimir is to be trusted; we shall probably dispose of the 
vessels in England." 

“ But are they not even oursr" the boy said, almost with 
a sob — it was the only time he had spoken. 

“Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else 's," re- 
plied the doctor. “ But the State would have some claim. 
If they were stolen, for instance, we should be unable to 
demand their restitution; we should have no title; we 
should be unable even to communicate with the police. 
Such is the monstrous condition of the law.* It is a mere 
instance of what remains to be done, of the injustices that 


* Let it be so, for my tale! 


210 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


may yet; be righted by an ardent, active, and philosophical 
deputy. ” 

Jean-Marie put his faith in Mme. Desprez; and as they 
drove forward down the road from Bourron, between the 
rustling poplars, he prayed in his teeth, and whipped up 
the horse to an unusual speed. Surely, as soon as they ar- 
rived, madame would assert her character, and bring this 
waking nightmare to an end. 

Their entrance into Gretz was heralded and accompanied 
by a most furious barking; all the dogs in the village 
seemed to smell the treasure in the noddy. But there was 
no one in the street, save three lounging landscape painters 
■at Tentaillon's door. Jean-Marie opened the green gate 
and led in the horse and carriage; and almost at the same 
moment Mme. Desprez came to the kitchen threshold with 
a lighted lantern; for the moon was not yet high enough 
to clear the garden walls. 

“ Close the gates, Jean-Marie!” cried the doctor, some- 
what unsteadily alighting. “ Anastasie, where is Aline?” 

“ She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,” said 
madame. 

“ All is for the best!” exclaimed the doctor, fervently. 

Here, quick, come near to me; I do not wish to speak 
too loud,” he continued. “ Darling, we are wealthy!” 

<c Wealthy!” repeated the wife. 

“ I have found the treasure of Franchard,” replied her 
husband. 44 See, here are the first fruits; a pine-apple, a 
dress for my ever-beautiful — it will suit her — trust a hus- 
band's, trust a lover's, taste! Embrace me, darling! 
This grimy episode is over; the butterfly unfolds its paint- 
ed wings. To-morrow Casimir will come; in a week we 
may be in Paris — happy at last! You shall have dia- 
monds. Jean-Marie, take it out of the boot, with religious 
care, and bring it piece by piece into the dining-room. 
We shall have plate at table! Darliug, hasten and prepare 
this turtle; it will be a whet — it will be an addition to our 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


211 


meager ordinary. I myself will proceed to the cellar. We 
shall have a bottle of that little Beaujolais you like, and 
finish with the Hermitage; there are still three bottles left. 
Worthy wine for a worthy occasion.” 

“ But, my husband; you put me in a whirl/ ’ she cried. 
{t I do not comprehend. ” 

“ The turtle, my adored, the turtle!” cried the doctor; 
and he pushed her toward the kitchen, lantern and all. 

Jean-Marie stood dumfounded. He had pictured to 
himself a different scene-— a more immediate protest, and 
his hope began to dwindle on the spot. 

The doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his legs, 
perhaps, and now and then taking the wall with his shoul- 
der; for it was long since he had tasted absinthe, and he 
was even then reflecting that the absinthe had been a mis- 
conception. Not that he regretted excess on such a glor- 
ious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; 
he must not, a second time, become the victim of a dele- 
terious habit. He had his wine out of the cellar in a 
twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels, some on the 
white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with 
historic earth. He was in and out of the kitchen, plying 
Anastasie with vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the 
future, estimating their new wealth at ever larger figures; 
and before they sat down to supper, the lady’s virtue had 
melted in the fire of his enthusiasm, her timidity had dis- 
appeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly of 
the life at Gretz; and as she took her place and helped the 
soup, her eyes shone with the glitter of prospective dia- 
monds. 

All through the meal, she and the doctor made and un- 
made fairy plans. They bobbed and bowed and pledged 
each other. Their faces ran over with smiles; their eyes 
scattered sparkles, as they projected the doctor’s political 
honors and the lady’s drawing-room ovations. 

“ But you will not be a Bed!” cried Anastasie. 


212 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


44 I am Left Center to the core,” replied the doctor. 

44 Madame Gastein will present us — we shall find our- 
selves forgotten,” said the lady. 

44 Never,” protested the doctor. 44 Beauty and talent 
leave a mark.” 

44 I have positively forgotten how to dress/ * she sighed. 

44 Darling, you make me blush,” cried he. 44 Yours 
has been a tragic marriage!” 

44 But your success — to see you appreciated, honored, 
your name in all the papers, that will be more than pleas- 
ure — it will be heaven!” she cried. 

44 And once a week,” said the doctor, archly scanning 
the syllables, 44 once a week — one good little game of bac- 
carat?” 

44 Only once a week?” she questioned, threatening him 
with a finger. 

44 1 swear it by my political honor,” cried he. 

44 1 spoil you,” she said, and gave him her hand. 

He covered it with kisses. 

Jean-Marie escaped into the night. The moon swung 
high over Gretz. He went down to the garden end and sat 
on the jetty. The river ran by with eddies of oily silver, 
and a low, monotonous song. Faint veils of mist moved 
among the poplars on the further side. The reeds were 
quietly nodding. A hundred times already had the boy sat, 
on such a night, and watched the streaming river with un- 
troubled fancy. And this perhaps was to be the last. He 
was to leave this familiar hamlet, this green, rustling coun- 
try, this bright and quiet stream; he was to pass into the 
great city; his dear lady mistress was to move bedizened 
into saloons; his good, garrulous, kind-hearted master to 
become a brawling deputy; and both be lost forever to 
Jean-Marie and their better selves. He knew his own de- 
fects; he knew he must sink into less and less consideration 
in the turmoil of a city life; sink more and more from the 
child into the servant, xind he began dimly to believe the 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


213 


doctor’s prophecies of evil. He could see a change in 
both. His generous incredulity failed him for this once; a 
child must have perceived that the Hermitage had com- 
pleted what the absinthe had begun. If this were the first 
day, what would be the last? “ If .necessary, wreck the 
train,” thought he, remembering the doctor’s parable. 
He looked round on the delightful scene; he drank deep of 
the charmed night air, laden with the scent of hay. “ If 
necessary, wreck the train,” he repeated. And he rose 
and returned to the house. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS. 

The next morning there was a most unusual outcry in 
the doctor’s house. The last thing before going to bed, 
the doctor had locked up some valuables in the dining- 
room cupboard; and behold, when he rose again, as he did 
about four o’clock, the cupboard had been broken open, 
and the valuables in question had disappeared. Madame 
and Jean-Marie were summoned from their rooms, and ap- 
peared in hasty toilets; they found the doctor raving, call- 
ing the heavens to witness and avenge his injury, pacing 
the room barefooted, with the tails of his night-shirt flirt- 
ing as he turned. 

“ Gone!” he said; “ the things are gone, the fortune 
gone! We are paupers once more. Boy! what do you 
know of this? Speak up, sir, speak up. Do you know of 
it? Where are they?” He had him by the arm, shaking 
him like a bag, and the boy’s words, if he had any, were 
jolted forth in inarticulate murmurs. The doctor, with a 
revulsion from his own violence, set him down again. He 
observed Anastasie in tears. “ Anastasie,” he said, in 
quite an altered voice, “ compose yourself, command your 
feelings. I would not have you give way to passion like 


214 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


the vulgar. This— this trifling accident must be lived 
down. Jean-Marie, bring me my smaller medicine chest. 
A gentle laxative is indicated . 99 

And he dosed the family all round, leading the way him- 
self with a double quantity. The wretched Anastasie, who 
had never been ill in the whole course of her existence, and 
whose soul recoiled from remedies, wept floods of tears as 
she sipped, and shuddered, and protested, and then was 
bullied and shouted at until she sipped again. As for 
Jean-Marie, he took his portion down with stoicism. 

44 I have given him a less amount,” observed the doctor, 
44 his youth protecting him against emotion. And now 
that we have thus parried any morbid consequences, let us 
reason.” 

44 I am so cold,” wailed Anastasie. 

44 Cold!” cried the doctor. 44 I give thanks to God that 
I am made of fierier material. Why, madam e, a blow like 
this would set a frog into a transpiration. If you are cold, 
you can retire; and, by the way, you might throw me down 
my trousers. It is chilly for the legs.” 

44 Oh, no!” protested Anastasie; 44 I will stay with you . 99 

44 Nay, madame, you shall not suffer for your devotion,” 
said the doctor. 4 4 1 will myself fetch you a shawl. ” And 
he went upstairs and returned more fully clad and with an 
armful of wraps for the shivering Anastasie. 4 4 And 
now,” he resumed, 44 to investigate this crime. Let us 
proceed by induction. Anastasie, do you know anything 
that can help us?” Anastasie knew nothing. 44 Or you, 
Jean-Marie?” 

44 Not I,” replied the boy, steadily. 

44 Good,” returned the doctor. 44 We shall now turn 
our attention to the material evidences. (I was born to be 
a detective; I have the eye and the systematic spirit.) 
First, violence has been employed. The door was broken 
open; and it may be observed, in passing, that the lock 


THE TREASURE OF FRA2STCHARD. 


215 


was dear indeed at what I paid for it: a crow to pluck with 
Master Goguelat. Second, here is the instrument em- 
ployed, one of our own table-knives, one of our best, my 
dear; which seems to indicate no preparation on the part 
of the gang — if gang it was. Thirdly, I observe that noth- 
ing has been removed except the Franchard dishes and the 
casket; our own silver has been minutely respected. This 
is wily; it shows intelligence, a knowledge of the code, a 
desire to avoid legal consequences. I argue from this fact 
that the gang numbers persons of respectability — outward, 
of course, and merely outward, as the robbery proves. But 
I argue, second, that we must have been observed at 
Franchard itself by some occult observer, and dogged 
throughout the day with a skill and patience that I vent- 
ure to qualify as consummate. No ordinary man, no occa- 
sional criminal, would have shown himself capable of this 
combination. We have in our neighborhood, it is far from 
improbable, a retired bandit of the highest order of intelli- 
gence. 99 

‘‘Good Heaven!” cried the horrified Anastasie. 
** Henri, how can you!” 

“ My cherished one, this is a process of induction,” said 
the doctor. “ If any of my steps are unsound, correct me. 
You are silent? Then do not, I beseech you, be so vulgar- 
ly illogical as to revolt from my conclusion. We have now 
arrived,” he resumed, “ at some idea of the composition 
of the gang — for I incline to the hypothesis of more than 
one— and we now leave this room, which can disclose no 
more, and turn our attention to the court and garden. 
(Jean-Marie, I trust you are observantly following my 
various steps; this is an excellent piece of education for 
you.) Come with me to the door. No steps on the court; 
it is unfortunate our court should be paved. On what 
small matters hang the destiny of these delicate investiga- 
tions! Hey! What have we here? I have led you to the 
very spot,” he said, standing grandly backward and indi- 


216 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


eating the green gate. “ An escalade, as you can now see 
for yourselves, has taken place . 99 

Sure enough, the green paint was in several places 
scratched and broken; and one of the panels preserved the 
print of a nailed shoe. The foot had slipped, however, 
and it was difficult to estimate the size of the shoe, and im- 
possible to distinguish the pattern of the nails. 

“ The whole robbery,” concluded the doctor, “ step by 
step, has been reconstituted. Inductive science can no 
further go . 99 

“It is wonderful,” said his wife. “ You should indeed 
have been a detective, Henri. I had no idea of your 
talents . ,9 

“ My dear,” replied Desprez, condescendingly, “ a man 
of scientific imagination combines the lesser faculties; he is 
a detective just as he is a publicist or a general; these are 
but local applications of his special talent. But now,” he 
continued, “ would you have me go further? Would you 
have me lay my finger on the culprits — or rather, for I can 
not promise quite so much, point out to you the very 
house where they consort? It may be a satisfaction, at 
least it is all we are likely to get, since we are denied the 
remedy of law. I reach the further stage in this way. In 
order to fill my outline of the robbery, I require a man 
likely to be in the forest idling, I require a man of educa- 
tion, I require a man superior to considerations of morality. 
The three requisites all center in Tentaillon's boarders. 
They are painters; therefore they are continually lounging 
in the forest. They are painters; therefore they are not 
unlikely to have some smattering of education. Lastly, 
because they are painters, they are probably immoral. 
And this I prove in two ways. First, painting is an art, 
which merely addresses the eye; it does not in any particu- 
lar exercise the moral sense. And second, painting, in 
common with all the other arts, implies the dangerous 
quality of imagination. A man of imagination is never 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


217 


moral; lie outsoars literal demarcations and reviews life 
under too many shifting lights to rest content with the in- 
vidious distinctions of the law!” 

44 But you always say — at least, so I understood you ” — 
said madame, 44 that these lads display no imagination 
whatever. ” 

44 My dear, they displayed imagination, and of a very 
fantastic order, too,” returned the doctor, 44 when they 
embraced their beggarly profession. Besides — and this is 
an argument exactly suited to your intellectual level — 
many of them are English and American. Where else 
should we expect to find a thief? And now you had better 
get your coffee. Because we have lost a treasure, there is 
no reason for starviug. For my part, I shall break my 
fast with white wine. I feel unaccountably heated and 
thirsty to-day. I can only attribute it to the shock of the 
discovery. And yet, you will bear me out, I supported the 
emotion nobly.” 

The doctor had now talked himself back into an admira- 
ble humor; and as he sat in the arbor and slowly imbibed 
a large allowance of white wine and picked a little bread 
and cheese with no very impetuous appetite, if a third of 
his meditations ran upon the missing treasure, the other 
two-thirds were more pleasingly busied in the retrospect of 
his detective skill. 

About eleven Casimir arrived; he had caught an early 
train to Fontainebleau, and driven over to save time; and 
now his cab was stabled at Tentaillon’s, and he remarked, 
studying his watch, that he could spare an hour and a 
half. He was much the man of business, decisively 
spoken, given to frowning in an intellectual manner. An- 
astasie’s born brother, he did not waste much sentiment on 
the lady, gave her an English family kiss, and demanded a 
meal without delay. 

44 You can tell me your story while we eat,” he ob- 
served. 44 Anything good to-day, Stasier” 


218 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


He was promised something good. The trio sat down to 
table in the arbor, Jean- Marie waiting as well as eating, 
and the doctor recounted what had happened in his richest 
narrative manner. Oasimir heard it with explosions of 
laughter. 

“ What a streak of luck for you, my good brother,” he 
observed, when the tale was over. “ If you had gone to 
Paris, you would have played dick-duck-drake with the 
whole consignment in three months. Your own would 
have followed; and you would have come to me in a pro- 
cession like the last time. But I give you warning — Stasie 
may weep and Henri ratiocinate — it will not serve you 
twice. Your next collapse will be fatal. I thought I had 
told you so, Stasie? Hey? Ho sense?” 

The doctor winced and looked furtively at Jean-Marie; 
but the boy seemed apathetic. 

“ And then again,” broke out Casimir, “ what children 
you are — vicious children, my faith! How could you tell 
the value of this trash? It might have been worth noth- 
ing, or next door.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the doctor. “ You have your usual 
flow of spirits, I perceive; but even less than your usual de- 
liberation. I am not entirely ignorant of these matters. ” 

“ Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard of,” 
interrupted Casimir, bowing, and raising his glass with a 
sort of pert politeness. 

“At least,” resumed the doctor, “I gave my mind to 
the subject — that you maybe willing to believe — and I esti- 
mated that our capital would be doubled.” And he de- 
scribed the nature of the find. 

“ My word of honor!” said Casimir, “ I half believe 
you! But much would depend on the quality of the 
gold.” 

“ The quality, my dear Casimir, was — ” And the doc- 
tor, in default of language, kissed his finger-tips. 

“ I would not take your word for it, my good friend , }> 


THE TREASURE OF FRAIsCHARD. 


219 


retorted the mail of business. ‘‘You are a man of very 
rosy views. But this robbery / 9 he continued — 44 this rob- 
bery is an odd thing. Of course I pass over your nonsense 
about gangs and landscape painters. For me, that is a 
dream. Who was in the house last night?” 

44 None but ourselves / 9 replied the doctor. 

44 And this young gentleman?” asked Casimir, jerking a 
nod in the direction of Jean-Marie. 

44 He too ” — the doctor bowed. 

44 Well; and, if it is a fair question, who is he?” pur- 
sued the brother-in-law. 

44 Jean-Marie,” answered the doctor, 44 combines the 
functions of a son and stable-boy. He began as the lat- 
ter, but he rose rapidly to the more honorable rank in our 
affections. He is, I may say, the greatest comfort in our 
lives.” 

44 Ha!” said Casimir. 44 And previous to becoming one 
of you?” 

44 Jean-Marie has lived a remarkable existence; his ex- 
perience has been eminently formative,” replied Desprez. 
44 If I had to choose an education for my son, I should have 
chosen such another. Beginning life with mountebanks and 
thieves, passing onward to the society and friendship of 
philosophers, he may be said to have skimmed the volume 
of human life. ” 

44 Thieves?” repeated the brother-in-law, with a medita- 
tive air. 

The doctor could have bitten his tongue out. He fore- 
saw what was coming, and prepared his mind for a vigor- 
ous defense. 

44 Did you ever steal yourself?” asked Caismir, turning 
suddenly on Jean-Marie, and for the first time employing 
a single eyeglass which hung round his neck. 

44 Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a deep blush. 

Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips, and 


220 THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 

nodded to them meaningly. “ Hey?" said he; “how is 
that?” 

“ Jean -Marie is a teller of the truth/' returned the doc- 
tor, throwing out his bust. 

“He has never told a lie/' added madarne. “ He is 
the best of boys. " 

“ Never told a lie, has he not?" reflected Casimir. 

“ Strange, very strange. Give me your attention, my 
young friend," he continued. “You knew about this 
treasure?" 

“ He helped to bring it home," interposed the doctor. 

“ Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your tongue," 
returned Casimir. “ I mean to question this stable-boy of 
yours; and if you are so certain of his innocence, you can 
afford to let him answer for himself. Now, sir," he re- 
sumed, pointing his eyeglass straight at Jean-Marie, “ you 
knew it could be stolen with impunity? You knew you 
would not be prosecuted? Come! Did you, or did you 
not?" 

“ I did/' answered Jean-Marie, in a miserable whisper. 
He sat there changing color like a revolving pharos, twist- 
ing his fingers hysterically, swallowing air, the picture of 
guilt. 

“ You knew where it was put?'' resumed the inquisitor. 

“ Yes," from Jean -Marie. 

“You say you have been a thief before," continued Cas- 
imir. “ Now how am I to know that you are not one still? 
I suppose you could climb the green gate?'' 

“ Yes/' still lower, from the culprit. 

“ Well, then, it was you who stole these things. You 
know it, and you dare not deny it. Look me in the face l 
Raise your sneak's eyes, and answer!" 

But in place of anything of that sort Jean-Marie broke 
into a dismal howl and fled from the arbor. Anastasie, as 
she pursued to capture and reassure the victim, found time 
to send one Parthian arrow — “ Casimir, you are a brute!" 


THE TREASURE OF FRAKCHARD. 22 1 

“ My brother / 5 said Desprez, with the greatest dignity, 
“you take upon yourself a license — " 

“ JDesprez," interrupted Casimir, “ for Heaven's sake he 
a man of the world. You telegraph me to leave my busi- 
ness and come down here on yours. I come, I ask the 
business, you say ‘ Find me this thief!' Well, I find him; 
I say 4 There he is!' l T ou need not like it, but you have 
no manner or right to take offense." 

“ Well," returned the doctor, “ I grant that; I will even 
thank you for your mistaken zeal. But your hypothesis 
was so extravagantly monstrous — " 

“ Look here," interrupted Casimir; “ was it you or 
Stasie?" 

“ Certainly not," answered the doctor. 

“ Very well; then it was the boy. Say no more about it," 
said the brother-in-law, and he produced his cigar case. 

“I will say this much more," returned Desprez: “If 
that boy came and told me so himself, I should not believe 
him; and if I did believe him, so implicit is my trust I 
should conclude that he had acted for the best." 

“Well, well," said Casimir, indulgently. “Have you 
a light? I must be going. And by the way, I wish you 
would let me sell your Turks for you. I always told you, 
it meant smash. I tell you so again. Indeed, it was part- 
ly that that brought me down. You never acknowledge 
my letters — a most unpardonable habit." 

“My good brother," replied the doctor blandly, “I 
have never denied your ability in business; but I can per- 
ceive your limitations. " 

“ Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment," ob- 
served the man of business. “Your limitation is to be 
downright irrational." 

“Observe the relative position," returned the doctor 
with a smile. “ It is your attitude to believe through thick 
and thin in one man's judgment — your own. I follow the 


222 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 


same opinion, but critically and with open eyes. Which is 
the more irrational ? I leave it to yourself. " 

“ Oh, my dear fellow!” cried Casimir, “ stick to your 
Turks, stick to your stable-boy, go to the devil in general 
in your own way and be done with it. But don't ratioci- 
nate with me — I cannot bear it. And so, ta-ta. I might 
as well have stayed away for any good I've done. Say 
good-bye from me to Stasie, and to the sullen hangdog of 
a stable boy, if you insist on it; I'm off." 

And Casimir departed. The doctor that night dissected 
his character before Anastasie. “ One thing, my beauti- 
ful,'' he said, “he has learned one thing from his live- 
long acquaintance with your husband: the word ratioci- 
nate. It shines in his vocabulary, like a jewel in a muck 
heap. And, even so, he continually misapplies it. For 
you must have observed he uses it as a sort of taunt, in the 
case of to ergotise , implying, as it were — the poor, dear fel- 
low! — a vein of sophistry. As for his cruelty to Jean- 
Marie, it must be forgiven him — it is not his nature, it is 
the nature of his life. A man who deals with money, my 
dear, is a man lost." 

With Jean-Marie the process of reconciliation had been 
somewhat slow. At first he was inconsolable, insisted on 
leaving the family, went from parox^ysm to paroxysm of 
tears; and it was only after Anastasie had been closeted 
for an hour with him, alone, that she came forth, sought 
out the doctor, and, with tears in her eyes, acquainted that 
gentleman with what had passed. 

“ At first my husband, he would hear of nothing," she 
said. Imagine! if he had left us! what would the treasure 
be to that? Horrible treasure, it has brought all this 
about! At last, after he has sobbed his very heart out, he 
agrees to stay on a condition — we are not to mention this 
matter, this infamous suspicion, not even to mention the 
robbery. On that agreement only, the poor, cruel boy will 
consent to remain among his friends.' 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 223 

“ But this inhibition,” said the doctor, “ this embargo — L 
cannot possibly apply to me?” 

“ To all of us,” Anastasie assured him. 

“My cherished one,” Desprez protested, “you must 
have misunderstood. It cannot apply to me. He would 
naturally come to me.” 

“ Henri,” she said, “ it does; I swear to you it does.” 

“ This is a painful, a very painful circumstance,” the 
doctor said, looking a little black. “ I cannot affect, 
Anastasie, to be anything but justly wounded. I feel this, 
I feel it, my wife, acutely. ” 

“ I knew you would,” she said. “ But if you had seen 
his distress! We must make allowances, we must sacri- 
fice our feelings.” 

“ I trust, my dear, you have never found me averse to 
sacrifices,” returned the doctor very stiffly. 

“And you will let me go and tell him that you have 
agreed? It will be like your noble nature,” she cried. 

So it would, he perceived — it would belike his noble nat- 
ure! Up jumped his spirits, triumphant at the thought. 
“ Go, darling,” he said nobly, “ reassure him. The sub- 
ject is buried; more — I make an effort, I have accustomed 
my will to these exertions — and it is forgotten. ” 

A little after, but still with swollen eyes and looking 
mortally sheepish, Jean-Marie reappeared and went osten- 
tatiously about his business. He was the only unhappy 
member of the party that sat down that night to supper. 
As for the doctor, he was radiant. He thus sang the 
requiem of the treasure: 

“ This has been, on the whole, a most amusing episode,” 
he said. “We are not a penny the worse — nay, we are 
immensely gainers. Our philosophy has been exercised; 
some of the turtle is still left — the most wholesome of deli- 
cacies; I have my staff, Anastasie has her new dress, Jean- 
Marie is the proud possessor of a fashionable kepi. Be- 
sides, we had a glass of Hermitage last night; the glow 


224 THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 

still suffuses my memory. I was growing positively nig- 
gardly with that Hermitage, positively niggardly. Let me 
take the hint: we had one bottle to celebrate the appear- 
ance of our visionary fortune; let us have a second to con- 
sole us for its occupation. The third I hereby dedicate to 
Jean-Marie's wedding breakfast.” 


CHAPTER VH. 

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ. 

The doctor's house has not yet received the compliment 
©f a description, and it is now high time that the omission 
were supplied, for the house is itself an actor in the story, 
and one whose part is nearly at an end. Two stories in 
height, walls of a warm yellow, tiles of an ancient ruddy 
brown diversified with moss and lichen, it stood with one 
wall to the street in the angle of the doctor's property. It 
was roomy, draughty and inconvenient. The large rafters 
were here and there engraven with rude marks and pat- 
terns; the handrail of the stair was carved in countrified 
arabesque; a stout timber pillar, which did duty to support 
the dining-room roof, bore mysterious characters on its 
darker side, runes, according to the doctor; npr did he fail, 
when he ran over the legendary history of the house and its 
possessors, to dwell upon the Scandinavian scholar who 
had left them. Floors, doors, and rafters made a great 
variety of angles; every room had a particular inclination; 
the gable had tilted toward the garden, after the manner of 
a leaning tower, and one of the former proprietors had but- 
tressed the building from that side with a great strut of 
wood, like the derrick of a crane. Altogether, it had many 
marks of ruin; it was a house for the rats to desert; and 
nothing but its excellent brightness — the window glass pol- 
ished and shining, the paint well scoured, the brasses radi- 
ant, the very prop all wreathed about with climbing flowers 


THE THEASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


225 


— nothing but its air of a well-tended, smiling veteran, 
sitting, crutch and all, in the sunny corner of a garden, 
marked it as a house for comfortable people to inhabit. In 
poor or idle management it would soon have hurried into 
the blackguard stages of decay. As it was, the whole fam- 
ily loved it, and the doctor was never better inspired than 
when he narrated its imaginary story and drew the char- 
acter of its successive masters, from the Hebrew merchant 
who had re-edified its walls after the sack of the town, and 
past the mysterious engraver of the runes, down to the 
long-headed, dirty-handed boor from whom he had himself 
acquired it at a ruinous expense. As for any alarm about 
its securitj 7 , the idea had never presented itself. What had 
stood for centuries might well endure a little longer. 

Indeed, in this particular winter, after the finding and 
losing of the treasure, the Desprezes had an anxiety of a 
very different order, and one which lay nearer their hearts. 
Jean-Marie was plainly not himself. He had fits of hectic 
activity, when he made unusual exertions to please, spoke 
more and faster, and redoubled in attention to his 
But these were interrupted V 01 melancholia and 
brooding silenoo, wlien the boy was little bettei than un- 
bearable. 

“ Silence,” the doctor moralized— 1 “ you see, Anastasie, 
what comes of silence. Had the boy properly unbosomed 
himself, the little disappointment about the treasure, the 
little annoyance about Casimir's incivility, would long ago 
have been forgotten. As it is, they prey upon him like a 
disease. He loses flesh, his appetite is variable, and, on 
the whole, impaired. I keep him on the strictest regimen, 
I exhibit the most powerful tonics; both in vain.” 

“ Don't you think you drug him too much?” asked ma- 
dame, with an irrepressible shudder. 

ec Drug?” cried the doctor; “ I drugr Anastasie, you 

are mad!” 

Time went on, and the boy's health still slowly declined. 

8 


226 THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 

The doctor blamed the weather, which was cold and bois- 
terous. He called in his confrere from Bourron, took a 
fancy for him, magnified his capacity, and was pretty soon 
under treatment himself — it scarcely appeared for what 
complaint. He and Jean-Marie had each medicine to take 
at different periods of the day. The doctor used to lie in 
wait for the exact moment, watch in hand. “ There is 
nothing like regularity,” he would say, fill out the doses, 
and dilate on the virtues of the draught; and if the boy 
seemed none the better, the doctor was not at all the woise. 
Gunpowder-day the boy was particularly low. It was 
scowling, squally weather. Huge broken companies of 
cloud sailed swiftly overhead; raking gleams of sunlight 
swept the village, and were followed by intervals of dark- 
ness and white, flying rain. At times the wind lifted up 
its voice and bellowed. The trees were all scourging 
themselves along the meadows, the last leaves flying like 
dust. The doctor, between the boy and the weather, was 
in his element; he had a theoiy to prove. He sat with his 
nut and a barometer in front of him, waiting for the 
squalls and noting ftoir effect upon the human pulse. 
“ For the true philosopher,” he remarked, delightedly, 
4 ‘every fact in nature is a toy.” A letter came to him; 
but, as its arrival coincided with the approach of another 
gust, he merely crammed it into his pocket, gave the time 
to Jean-Marie, and the next moment they were both count- 
ing their pulses as if for a wager. 

At night-fall the wind rose into a tempest. It besieged 
the hamlet, apparently from every side, as if with bat- 
teries of cannon; the houses shook and groaned; live coals 
were blown upon the floor. The uproar and terror of the 
night kept people long awake, sitting with pallid faces giv- 
ing ear. 

It was twelve before the Desprez family retired. By half- 
past one, when the storm ‘ was already somewhat past its 
height, the doctor was awakened from a troubled slumber. 


THE TREASURE OF FRA BTC HARD. 


227 


and sat up. A noise still rang in his ears, but whether of 
this world or the world of dreams he was not certain. An- 
other clap of wind followed. It was accompanied by a sick- 
ening movement of the whole house, and in the subsequent 
lull Desprez could hear the tiles pouring like a cataract into 
the loft above his head. He plucked Anastasie bodily out 
of bed. 

“Run!” he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel into 
her hands; “ the house is falling! To the garden!” 

She did not pause to be twice bidden; she was down the 
stair in an instant. She had never before suspected herself 
of such activity. The doctor meanwhile, with the speed 
of a piece of pantomime business, and undeterred by broken 
shins, proceeded to rout out Jean-Marie, tore Aline from 
her virgin slumbers, seized her by the hand, and tumbled 
down-stairs and into the garden, with the girl tumbling be- 
hind him, still not half awake. 

The fugitives rendezvoused in the arbor by some com- 
mon instinct. Then came a bulTs-eye flash of struggling 
moonshine, which disclosed their four figures standing hud- 
dled from the wind in a raffle of flying drapery, and not 
without a considerable need for more. At the humiliating 
spectacle Anastasie clutched her night-dress desperately 
about her and burst loudly into tears. The doctor flew to 
console her; but she elbowed him away. She suspected 
everybody of being the general public, and thought the 
darkness was alive with eyes. 

Another gleam and another violent gust arrived together; 
the house was seen to rock on its foundation, and, just as 
the light was once more eclipsed, a crash which triumphed 
over the shouting of the wind announced its fall, and for a 
moment the whole garden was alive with skipping tiles and 
brickbats. One such missile grazed the doctor's ear; an- 
other descended on the bare foot of Aline, who instantly 
made night hideous with her shrieks. 

By this time the hamlet was alarmed, lights flashed from 


228 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


the windows, hails reached the party, and the doctor an- 
swered, nobly contending against Aline and the tempest. 
But this prospect of help only awakened Anastasie to a more 
active stage of terror. 

“ Henri, people will be coming," she screamed in her 
husband’s ear. 

“ I trust so," he replied. 

“ They can not. I would rather die," she wailed. 

“ My dear/* said the doctor, reprovingly, “ you are ex- 
cited. I gave you some clothes. What have you done with 
them?" 

“ Oh, I don’t know — I must have thrown them away! 
Where are they?" she sobbed. 

Desprez groped about in the darkness. “Admirable!" 
he remarked; “ my gray velveteen trousers! This will ex- 
actly meet your necessities. " 

“ Give them to me!" she cried fiercely; but as soon as 
she had them in her hands her mood appeared to alter — she 
stood silent for a moment, and then pressed the garment 
back upon the doctor. “ Give it to Aline," she said — 
“ poor girl. " 

“ Nonsense!" said the doctor. “Aline does not know 
what she is about. Aline is beside herself with terror; and 
at any rate, she is a peasant. Now I am really concerned 
at this exposure for a person of your housekeeping habits; 
my solicitude and your fantastic modesty both point to the 
same remedy — the pantaloons." He held them ready. 

“ It is impossible. You do not understand," she said 
with dignity. 

By this time rescue was at hand. It had been found im- 
practicable to enter by the street, for the gate was blocked 
with masonry, and the nodding ruin still threatened 
further avalanches. But between the doctor’s garden and 
the one on the right hand there was that very picturesque 
contrivance — a common well; the door on the Desprez’s side 
had chanced to be unbolted, and now, through the arched 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


229 


aperture a man's bearded face and an arm supporting a 
lantern were introduced into the world of windy darkness, 
where Anastasie concealed her woes. The light struck here 
and there among the tossing apple boughs, it glinted on 
the grass; but the lantern and the glowing face became the 
center of the world. Anastasie crouched back from the in- 
trusion. 

“ This way!" shouted the man. “ Are you all safer" 

Aline, still screaming, ran to* the new-comer, and was 
presently hauled head-foremost through the wall. 

“ Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn," said the 
husband. 

“ I can not," she replied. 

“ Are we all to die of exposure, madame?" thundered 
Dr. Desprez. 

“ You can go!" she cried. “ Oh, go, go away! I can 
stay here; I am quite warm." 

The doctor took her by the shoulders with an oath. 

“ Stop!" she screamed. “ I will put them on." 

She took the detested lendings in her hand once more; 
but her repulsion was stronger than shame. “ Never!" 
she cried, shuddering, and flung them far away into the 
night. 

Next moment the doctor had whirled her to the well. 
The man was there and the lantern; Anastasie closed her 
eyes and appeared to herself to be about to die. How she 
was transported through the arch she knew not; but once 
on the other side she was received by the neighbor's wife, 
and enveloped in a friendly blanket. 

Beds were made ready for the two women, clothes of very 
various sizes for the doctor and Jean-Marie; and for the re- 
mainder of the night, while madame dozed in and out on 
the borderland of hysterics, her husband sat beside the fire 
and held forth to the admiring neighbors. He showed 
them, at length, the causes of the accident; for years, he 
explained, the fall had been impending; one sign had fol- 


230 


THE TREASURE OF FRA!N T CHARD. 


lowed another, the joints had opened, the plaster had 
crackled, the old walls bowed inward; last, not three weeks 
‘ ago, the cellar door had begun to work with difficulty in its 
grooves. 4 4 The cellar!” he said, gravely shaking his head 
over a glass of mulled wine. 44 That reminds me of my 
poor vintages. By a manifest providence the Hermitage 
was nearly at an end. One bottle— I lose but one bottle of 
that incomparable wine., It had been set apart against 
Jean-Marie’s wedding. Well, I must laydown some more; 
it will be an interest in life. I am, however, a man some- 
what advanced in years. My great work is now buried in 
the fall of my humble roof; it will never be completed — my 
name will have been writ in water. And yet you find me 
calm — I would say cheerful. Can your priest do more?” 

By the first glimpse of day the party sallied forth from 
the fireside into the street. The wind had fallen, but still 
charioted a world of troubled clouds; the air bit like frost; 
and the party, as they stood about the ruins in the rainy 
twilight of the morning, beat upon their breasts and blew 
into their hands for warmth. The house had entirely 
fallen, the walls outward, the roof in; it was a mere heap 
of rubbish, with here and there a forlorn spear of broken 
rafter. A sentinel was placed over the ruins to protect the 
property, and the party adjourned to Tentaillon’s to break 
their fast at the doctor’s expense. The bottle circulated 
somewhat freely; and before they left the table it had 
begun to snow. 

For three days the snow continued to fall, and the ruins, 
covered with tarpaulin and watched by sentries, were left 
undisturbed. The Desprez’s meanwhile had taken up their 
abode at Tentaillon’s. Madame spent her time in the 
kitchen, concocting little delicacies, with the admiring aid 
of Mme. Tentaillon, or sitting by the fire in thoughtful ab- 
straction. The fall of the house “ affected her wonderfully 
little; that blow had been parried by another; and in her 
mind she was continually fighting over again the battle of 


THE TKEASUIIE OF FKANCHABD. 


231 


the trousers. Had she done right? Had she done wrong? 
And now she would applaud her determination: and anon, 
with a horrid flush of unavailing penitence, she would re- 
gret the trousers. No juncture in her life had so much ex- 
ercised her judgment. In the meantime the doctor had 
become vastly pleased with his situation. Two of the sum- 
mer boarders still lingered behind the rest, prisoners for 
lack of a remittance; they were both English, but one of 
them spoke French pretty fluently, and was, besides, a 
humorous, agile-minded fellow, with whom the doctor could 
reason by the hour, secure of comprehension. Many were 
the glasses they emptied, many the topics they discussed. 

“ Anastasie,” the doctor said on the third morning, 
“ take an example from your husband, from Jean-Marie. 
Tbe excitement has done more for the boy than all my ton- 
ics, he takes his turn as sentry with positive gusto. As 
for me, you behold me. I have made friends with the 
Egyptians; and my Pharaoh is, I swear it, a most agreeable 
companion. You alone are hipped. About a house — a 
few dresses? "What are they in comparison to the 4 Phar- 
macopoeia 9 — the labor of years lying buried below stones 
and sticks in this depressing hamlet? The snow falls; I 
shake it from my cloak! Imitate me. Our income will be 
impaired, I grant it since we must rebuild; but moderation, 
patience, and philosophy will gather about the hearth. In 
the meanwhile, the Tentaillons are obliging; the table, 
with your additions, will pass; only the wine is execrable — 
well, I shall send for some to-day. My Pharaoh will be 
gratified to drink a decent glass; aha! and I shall see if he 
possesses that acme of organization — a palate. If he has a 
palate, he is perfect.” 

te Henri,” she said, shaking her head, “ you are a man; 
you can not understand my feelings; no woman could shake 
otf the memory of so public a humiliation.” 

The doctor could not restrain a titter. li Pardon me, 
darling,” he said; “ but really, to the philosophical intelli- 


232 THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHARD. 

i 

gence, the incident appears so small a trifle. You looked 
extremely well — ” 

“ Henri !” she cried. 

“ Well, well, I will say no more, ” he replied. “ Though, 
to be sure, if you had consented to indue — A propos,” he 
broke off, <£ and my trousers! They are lying in the snow 
— my favorite trousers?” And he dashed in quest of Jean- 
Marie. 

Two hours afterward the boy returned to the inn with a 
spade under one arm and a curious sop of clothing under 
the other. 

The doctor ruefully took it in his hands. “ They have 
been!” he said. “ Their tense is past. Excellent panta- 
loons, you are no more! Stay! something in the pocket,” 
and he produced a piece of paper. “ A letter! ay, now I 
mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when 
I was absorbed in delicate investigations. It is still legible. 
From poor, dear Casimir! It is as well,” he chuckled, 
“ that I have educated him to patience. Poor Casimir and 
his correspondence— his infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic cor- 
respondence!” 

He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; 
but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, a cloud de- 
scended on his brow. 

“ Bigre /” he cried, with a galvanic start. 

And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the 
doctor's cap was on his head in the turn of a hand. 

“ Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,” he cried. “ It 
is always late. I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.” 

“ Henri! what is wrong?”cried his wife. 

“ Ottoman Bonds!” came from the disappearing doctor; 
and Anastasie and Jean-Marie were left face to face with 
the wet trousers. Hesprez had gone to Paris, for the sec- 
ond time in seven years; he had gone to Paris with a pair 
of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a coun- 
try nightcap, and twenty francs in his pocket. The fall 


THE TREASURE OF FRAKCHARD. 233 

of the house was but a secondary marvel; the whole world 
might have fallen and scarce left his family more petrified. 


CHAPTER YIIL 

THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Ok the morning of the next day, the doctor, a mere 
specter of himself, was brought back in the custody of Oas- 
imir. They found Anastasie and the boy sitting together 
by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged his toilet for 
a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, waved his hand as 
he entered, and sunk speechless on the nearest chair. 
Madame turned direct to Casimir. 

“ What is wrong:” she cried. 

“ Well,” replied Casimir, “ what have I told you all 
along? It has come. It is a clean shave, this time; so 
you may as well bear up and make the best of it. House 
down, too, eh? Bad luck, upon my soul.” 

“ Are we — are we — ruined?” she gasped. 

The doctor stretched out his arms to her. “Ruined,” 
he replied, “ you are ruined by your sinister husband.” 

Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his 
eyeglass; then he turned to Jean-Marie. “ You hear?” 
he said. “ They are ruined; no more pickings, no more 
house, no more fat cutlets. It strikes me, my friend, that 
you had best be packing; the present speculation is about 
worked out.” And he nodded to him meaningly. 

“ Never!” cried Desprez, springing up. “ Jean-Marie, 
if you prefer to leave me, now that I am poor, you can go; 
you shall receive your hundred francs, if so much remains 
to me. But if you will consent to stay ” — the doctor wept 
a little — “ Casimir offers me a place — as clerk,” he resumed. 
“ The emoluments are slender, but they will be enough for 
three. It is too much already to have lost my fortune; 
must I lose my son?” 


234 


THE TREASURE OF FRAHCHAED. 


Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word. 

44 I don't like boys who cry, ” observed Casimir. 44 This 
one is always crying. Here! you clear out of this for a 
little; 1 have business with your master and mistress, and 
these domestic feelings may be settled after I am gone. 
March!” and he held the door open. 

Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief. 

By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie. 

44 Heyr” said Casimir. 44 Gone, you see. Took the 
hint at once.” 

44 1 do not, I confess,” said Desprez, 44 1 do not seek to 
excuse his absence. It speaks a want of heart that disap- 
points me sorely.” 

44 Want of manners,” corrected Casimir. 44 Heart, he 
never had. Why, Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are the 
most gullible mortal in creation. Your ignorance of human 
nature and human business is beyond belief. You are 
swindled by heathen Turks, swindled by vagabond children, 
swindled right and left, upstairs and down-stairs. I think it 
must be your imagination. I thank my stars I have none.” 

44 Pardon me,” replied Desprez, still humbly, but with a 
return of spirit at sight of a distinction to be drawn; 44 par- 
don me, Casimir. You possess, even to an eminent degree, 
the commercial imagination. It was the lack of that in me 
— it appears it is my weak point — that has led to these re- 
peated shocks. By the commercial imagination the financier 
forecasts the destiny of his investments, marks the falling 
house—” 

44 Egad,” interrupted Casimir: 44 our friend the stable- 
boy appears to have his share of it.” 

The doctor was silenced; and the meal was continued 
and finished principally to the tune of the brother-in-law's 
not very consolatory conversation. He entirely ignored the 
two young English painters, turning a blind eyeglass to their 
salutations, and continuing his remarks as if he were alone 
in the bosom of his family; and with every second word he 


THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. 


235 


ripped another stitch out of the air balloon of Desprez's 
vanity. By the time coffee was over the poor doctor was as 
limp as a napkin. 

“ Let us go and see the ruins/ , said Casimir. 

They strolled forth into the street. The fall of the house, 
like the loss of a front tooth, had quite transformed the 
village. Through the gap the eye commanded a great 
stretch of open snowy country, and the place shrunk in com- 
parison. It was like a room with an open door. The 
sentinel stood by the green gate, looking very red and cold, 
but he had a pleasant word for the doctor and his wealthy 
kinsman. 

Casimir looked at the mound of ruins, he tried the quality 
of the tarpaulin. “ H^m,” he said, “ I hope the cellar 
arch has stood. If it has, my good brother, I will give you 
a good price for the wines. ” 

“ We shall start digging to-morrow,” said the sentry. 
“ There is no more fear of snow.” 

“ My friend,” returned Casimir sententiously, “you had 
better wait till you get paid.” 

The doctor winced, and began dragging his offensive 
brother-in-law toward Tentaillon's. In the house there 
would be fewer auditors, and these already in the secret of 
his fall. 

“ Halloo,” cried Casimir, “ there goes the stable-boy with 
his luggage; no, egad, he is taking it into the inn.” 

And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the snowy 
street and enter TentailloiJs, staggering under a large 
hamper. 

The doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope. 

“ What can he have?” he said. “ Let us go and see.” 
And he hurried on. 

“ His luggage, to be sure,” answered Casimir. “ He is 
on the move — thanks to the commercial imagination. ” 

“ I have not seen that hamper for — for ever so long,” 
remarked the doctor. 


236 THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARl). 

“ Nor will you see it much longer, ” chuckled Casimir; 
“ unless, indeed, we interfere. And by the way, I insist 
on an examination.” 

“You will not require,” said Desprez, positively with a 
sob; and, casting a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, 
he began to run. 

“What the devil is up with him, I wonder?” Casimir 
reflected; and then, curiosity taking the upper hand, he 
folowed the doctor’s example and took to his heels. 

The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Marie 
himself so little' and so weary, that it had taken him a great 
while to bundle it upstairs to the Desprez’ private room; 
and he had just set it down on the floor in front of 
Anastasie, when the doctor arrived, and was closely fol- 
lowed by the man of business. Boy and hamper were both 
in a most sorry plight; for the one had passed four months 
underground in a certain cave on the way to Acheres, and 
the other had run about five miles as hard as his legs 
would carry him, half that distance under a staggering 
weight. 

“ Jean-Marie,” cried the doctor, in a voice that was only 
too seraphic to be called hysterical, “ is it — ? It is!” he 
cried. “ Oh, my son, my son!” And he sat down upon 
the hamper and sobbed like a little child. 

“ You will not go to Paris, now,” said Jean-Marie sheep- 
ishly. 

“ Casimir,” said Desprez, raising his wet face, “ do you 
see that boy, that angel boy? He is the thief; he took the 
treasure from a man unfit to be intrusted with its use; he 
brings it back to me when I am sobered and humbled. 
These, Casimir, are the Fruits of my Teaching, and this 
moment is the Reward of my Life.” 

“ Tiens ,” said Casimir. 


THE END. 


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brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub, even the greasy kitchen sink, will 
be as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove all 
we say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. 

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191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

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238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

239 Signa, By “ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

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242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennerv 10 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

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244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

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245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

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247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

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248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

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253 The Amazon By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 


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255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

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( 4 ). 


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260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

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276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

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278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

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280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

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281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Alary 

Cecil Hay 20 

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286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand. By 

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287 At War With Herself. By the 

* author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “ Brutal 


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290 Nora’s Love Test. By Alary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Alitchelhurst Place. By Alarga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatoliford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

30-> Iugledew House, and Alore Bit- 
ter than Death. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne’’. - 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper. 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fen i more 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Alistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Aliss AI. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Airs. Alex. 
AlcVeigh Aliller 20 


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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray .". 10 

321 The Prodigals : And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besaut 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

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329 The Polish Jew. Bj'Erckmaun- 


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330 Ma}; Blossom ; or, Between Two 

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331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

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334 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

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335 The White Witch. A Novel.. .. 20 

336 Pliilistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

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338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

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339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

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340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

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341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

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342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “ The Duchess ” — 10 

343 The Talk of the Town. By 


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344 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

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345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

316 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

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347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

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348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

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349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

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350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

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351 The House on the Moor. By 

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352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 29 

304 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water- Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenirnore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott *. 19 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or, The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 


367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or, The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenirnore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man's Secret; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
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375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 


Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

B\* the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 19 

377 Magdaleu Hepburn : A Story 

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489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

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